UCSB   LIBRARY 


TON:   L1I  AND  8H1PABD. 


THE 


SOCIAL  STAGE 


DRAMAS,  COMEDIES,  BURLESQUES,  AND 
ENTERTAINMENTS 


HOME  RECREATION,  SCHOOLS,  AND  PUBLIC  EXHIBITIONS. 


BY   GEORGE    M.    BAKER, 

AUTHOR  OF  "AMATEUR  DRAMAS,"  "THE   MIMIC  STAGE,"  "AN   OLD  MAN'S 
PRAYER,"  ETC. 


BOSTON : 
LEE    &    SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS. 

NEW    YORK: 

LEE,  SHEPARD,  &  DILLIXG ilAM. 
1871. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

GEORGE  M.  BAKER, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


Rand,  A  very,  <&*  Frye,  Printers,  Boston. 


TO 

AN    OLD    FRIEND    AND    FELLOW-TRAVELLEB, 

HENRY     C.     BARNABEE,    ESQ., 

NEVER 

"TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN" 
•WHEN  HIS  VALUABLE  ASSISTANCE  IS  NEEDED  IN  A  GOOD  CAUSE, 

Shis  gcok 

IS    FRATERNALLY   INSCRIBED. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  LAST  LOAF 

A  GRECIAN  BEND 43 

Too  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN 65 

SNOW-BOUND 93 

BONBONS 139 

LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE 191 

THE  WAR  OF  THE  ROSES 205 

THIHTT  MINUTES  FOR  REFRESHMENTS 219 

"  A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER  " 241 

"NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN" 263 


PREFACE. 


THE  plays  comprised  in  "  The  Social  Stage,"  like 
those  in  "Amateur  Dramas"  and  "The  Mimic 
Stage,"  have  been  prepared  for  the  special  use  of 
amateurs,  with  a  view  to  "  home  production  "  and 
the  school  platform.  Some  of  them  have  been  writ- 
ten at  the  request  of  instructors  in  the  public  schools, 
committees  of  literary  societies,  and  temperance  or- 
ganizations ;  and,  having  been  performed  with  success 
under  their  direction,  may  be  said  to  have  received 
the  stamp  of  public  approval.  The  musical  and  dra- 
matic entertainments,  "  Bonbons,"  "  Snow-Bound," 
and  "  Too  Late  for  the  Train,"  have  been  publicly 
performed,  and  received  with  favor.  "  The  Grecian 
Bend,"  "  The  War  of  the  Roses,"  and  "  Lightheart's 
Pilgrimage  "  originally  appeared  in  "  Oliver  Optic's 
Magazine  ;  "  while  "  The  Last  Loaf,"  "  Thirty  Min- 

5 


6  PREFACE. 

utes  for  Refreshments,"  and  "  A  Little  More  Cider  " 
are  debutantes.  All  are  specially  commended  to  the 
wants  of  the  social  circle,  where  they  can  be  pro- 
duced at  a  very  little  expense,  and  where  they  will 
at  least  afford  amusement,  if  not  instruction,  for  the 
long  winter  nights.  The  author  takes  this  oppor- 
tunity to  thank  those  individuals  and  associations 
who  have  forwarded  to  him  programmes,  photo- 
graphs, and  notices,  where  his  pieces  have  been  per- 
formed. Such  remembrances  are  most  kind,  and 

will  always  be  appreciated. 

G.  M.  B. 

20"  WEST  SPRINGFIELD  STREET,  BOSTON. 


***  All  the  plays  in  this  collection  are  published  separately,  and 
can  be  had  of  the  publishers.  '"Snow-Bound,"  25  cents;  "Bonbons," 
25  cents ;  others,  15  cents  each. 


THE    LAST    LOAF, 


A  DRAMA  IN  TWO  ACTS. 


CHARACTERS. 

0  H  ^"MARK  ASHTON,  a  Silversmith  (thirty -eight  years  of  age).  ~~frl*.  V, 
*  y  CALEB  HANSON,  a  Baker  (forty  years  of  age). 

HAERY  HANSON,  his  son  (eighteen  years  of  age). 
DICK  BUSTLE,  a  Journeyman  Baker  (twenty-five  years  of  age). 
',»  ff     TOM  CIICBBS,  a  Butcher  (twenty-five  years  of  age). 

KATE  ASHTON,  Mark's  wife  (thirty-six  years  of  age). 
LILLY  ASIITON,  their  daughter  (sixteen  years  of  age). 
PATTY  JONES,  a  Yankee  girl  (twenty-two  years  of  age). 

COSTUMES. 

MAKE  ASHTON.  Act  1,  Neat  modern  dress,  with  breakfast-jacket. 
Act  2,  Rusty-black  suit  and  black  necktie,  without  collar ;  gen- 
eral seedy  appearance. 

CALEB  HANSON.  Act  1,  Blue  coat,  brass  buttons,  white  vest,  light 
pants.  Act  2,  Brown  coat,  plaid  vest  and  pants. 

HARRY  HANSON.     Modern  suits. 

DICK  BUSTLE.  Act  1,  Short  light  pants,  white  stockings,  shoes, 
plaid  vest,  green  jacket,  paper  cap.  Act  2,  Blue  sailor-rig, — 
pants,  shirt,  and  jacket,  — with  paper  cap  as  in  first  act. 

TOM  CHUBBS.  Act  1,  Butcher's  frock  —  white  —  and  cap.  Act  2, 
Butcher's  frock  —  blue  —  and  tall  hat. 

T 


8  THE    LAST    LOAF. 

KATE  ASHTOX.     Act  1,  Handsome  evening  dress.     Act  2,  Black 

dress,  white  collar  and  cuffs. 
LILLY  ASIITON.     Act  1,  Pretty  evening  dress,  flowing  curls.     Act 

2,  Plain  Mack  dress   white  apron,  collar,  and  cuffs. 
PATTY  JONES.     Act  1,  Brown  dress,  white  apron,  collar,  and  cuffs, 

cap.     Act  2,  Plaid  dress. 

A  period  of  five  years  supposed  to  elapse  between  the  acts. 


ACT  1.  SCENE.  —  Apartment  in  MARK  ASHTON'S  house. 
Table,  c.,  at  ivhich  situ  MARK  Asarox,  L.,  reading  a 
newspaper.  KATE  ASHTOX,  R.,  sewing.  Lounge,  R. 
Piano,  L.,  at  which  sits  LILLY,  playing  "Home,  swc.rt 
Home,"  as  the  curtain  rises  (should  it  be  inconvenient 
to  have  a  piano  on  the  stage,  let  LILLY  sit  L.,  engaged 
with  some  fancy  needle-work,  and  sing,  if  she  can, 
"  Home,  sweet  Home").  Flowers,  little  knick-knacks, 
any  thing  to  make  the  room  look  cosy,  should  be  displayed 
about  the  stage. 

Mark.  "  Home,  sweet  Home."  Ah,  Kate  !  blest  is 
the  man  who  can  say  that,  conscious  he  is  the  possessor 
of  such  a  treasure.  Xow  here  am  I,  Mark  Ashton, 
once  a  gay,  thoughtless  dog,  throwing  my  money,  away 
as  fast  as  earned,  never  taking  heed  of  the  morrow,  — 
easy-going  Mark  Ashton,  always  ready  for  a  lurk.  But 
across  my  path  steps  a  neat,  pretty  maid,  —  don't  blush 
Kate,  —  and,  presto,  change  !  before  I  know  it,  up  springs 
a  dear  home,  with  a  loving  wife  to  adorn  it,  and  a  sweet 
little  daughter —  I  declare,  the  girl  is  listening  ! 

Kate.  Of  course  she  is  ;  astonished  to  find  her  sedate 
father  so  far  forget  himself  as  to  indulge  in  such  absurd 
panegyrics. 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  9 

Lilly.  Why,  mother,  where  did  you  find  that  stupen- 
dous word? 

Mark.  Ha,  ha  !  Kate,  you  astonished  her  more  than 
I  did.  Lilly,  my  dear,  it  strikes  me  that  you  and  Harry 
Hanson  are  very  intimate. 

Lilly.  Why,  pa  !  I  haven't  seen  Harry  for  ever  and 
ever  so  long. 

Hark.  No,  not  since  twelve  o'clock,  when  I  saw  him 
beauing  you  home  from  school. 

Lilly.  But  I  can't  help  it  if  he  happens  to  come  along 
when  school  is  out,  and  is  coming  straight  home,  can  I? 

Mark.  Oh  !  certainly  not ;  nor  can  you  help  taking 
the  longest  route,  and  managing  to  get  home  after  dinner 
is  cold. 

Kate.  Now,  Mark,  don't  hector  Lilly  about  Harry 
Hanson.  If  they  like  each  other's  company,  there's  no 
harm  in  it. 

Mark.  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that.  Caleb  Han- 
son is  a  queer  fish,  and,  since  he  has  made  money,  a 
little  inclined  to  be  proud.  He  might  object  to  this  inti- 
macy ;  and,  as  he  is  my  oldest  friend,  I  should  not  like  to 
quarrel  with  him  to  humor  a  little  girl  who  — 

Lilly.  You  love  very  dearly,  and  to  whom  you  never 
refuse  any  thing.  If  Mr.  Hanson  don't  like  it,  send  him 
to  me.  I  could  just  twist  him  round  my  fingers  — 

Mark.  As  you  do  everybody  else.  Well,  I  won't 
meddle  ;  but  be  careful,  child,  for  matrimony  is  a  terri- 
ble thing  to  contemplate. 

Kate.  Matrimony  !  I  believe,  Mark,  you  are  losing 
your  senses,  to  talk  so  to  a  girl  only  sixteen. 

Mark.     Only    sixteen !      'Tis    a    dangerous    age.      I 


10  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

remember  the  time  when  a  young  lady  only  sixteen  en- 
trapped me  into  a  confession  — 

Kate.  Lilly,  you  had  better  go  up  stairs  :  your  father 
is  quite  ill. 

Mark.  No,  no :  don't  send  her  away.  I'll  behave 
myself,  indeed  I  will :  I  only  wished  to  caution  — 

Lilly.     Shall  I  go,  mother? 

Mark.  No,  don't.  I'm  dumb :  give  me  "  Home, 
sweet  Home  "  again,  and  I  will  be  very  quiet. 

Harry.  (Outside,  L.)  Thank  you,  Patty.  Don't 
trouble  yourself.  I'll  find  the  way. 

Lilly.  Why,  that's  Harry !  Now,  what  sent  him 
here  ? 

Mark.     How  innocent,  —  and  only  sixteen  ! 

Enter  HARRY  HANSON,  L.,  ivith  a  bouquet. 

Harry.  Ah!  all  here?  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Ashton. 
Good-evening,  Mr.  Ashton. 

Kate.     Good-evening,  Harry. 

Mark.  Come  right  in,  Harry :  glad  to  see  you ;  al- 
ways glad  to  see  you. 

Harry.  Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind.  I  brought 
a  few  flowers  for  Lilly  (presenting  bouquet^. 

Lilly.  Oil !  thank  you,  Harry.  Ar'n't  they  beautiful, 
mother?  Oh,  I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  thinking 
of  me ! 

Harry.  Oh  !  it's  no  consequence.  I  happened  to  see 
them  in  a  store  on  my  way  home,  and  they  looked  so 
pretty  I  thought  I  would  buy  them.  After  I  had  bought 
them,  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  them,  and  so  I  — 
I  —  you'll  excuse  my  bringing  them  to  you,  won't  you  ? 


THE    LAST    LOAF.  11 

Lilly.  Why,  Harry,  I  shall  prize  them  very  much 
because  you  did  bring  them;  and  I  shall  love  —  that 
is  —  I  —  shall  like  you  all  the  better. 

Mark.  Kate,  don't  you  thiuk  the  young  people  could 
get  along  with  their  eyes  a  little  better  if  we  retired? 

Kate.  I  think  so,  Mark.  Lilly,  you  must  entertain 
Harry  till  I  return.  I  must  give  directions  to  Patty 
about  breakfast.  (Exit,  L.) 

Mark.  By  George  !  I  forgot  all  about  that  letter  of 
Smith's.  Make  yourself  at  home,  Harry.  I'll  be  back 
soon.  (Exit,  K.) 

Lilly.  O  Harry  !  it  was  so  kind  of  you  to  bring  me 
those  flowers,  so  fresh  and  sweet  (sits  on  lounge). 

Harry  (sits  leside  her).  I'm  so  glad  you  like  them. 
After  I  left  you  to-day,  I  thought  what  a  long  time  it 
would  be  before  I  saw  you  again  to-morrow ;  and  I 
tried  to  think  of  some  excuse  to  come  to-night,  when 
these  flowers  attracted  my  attention,  and  away  I  went 
after  them.  Wasn't  it  a  jolly  good  excuse? 

Lilly.  Harry,  you  need  not  find  excuses  to  bring  you 
here :  we're  always  glad  to  see  you.  I'm  sure  father 
and  mother  are  always  glad  to  see  you  ;  and  you1  cannot 
doubt  that  I  am. 

Harry.  No,  indeed,  Lilly  ;  of  you  I  am  sure.  But  to 
come  here,  where  you  are  all  so  happy,  seems  like  an 
intrusion.  It's  such  a  change  from  our  old  gloomy  home  ! 
Since  mother  died,  that  place  has  been  like  a  prison  to 
me.  Father  never  did  take  much  notice  of  me,  and  now 
he  absolutely  shuns  me.  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer. 
Some  dark  night  I  shall  tie  my  clothes  up  in  a  bundle, 
creep  out  of  the  house,  and  wander  off  in  search  of 
fomine. 


12  THE    LAST   LOAF. 

Lilly.     What!  runaway?     You  don't  mean  it? 

Harry.     Ay,  but  I  do.     You  know  Capt.  Bangs? 

Lilly.  Of  course  I  do  ;  and  like  him  too  :  he's  such  a 
splendid  sailor  !  I  do  like  sailors.  If  I  was  a  man,  I'd 
be  one,  and  climb  up  the  main  hatches  and  the  jib-booms, 
and  heave-ho  with  the  best  of 'em. 

Harry.  Now  heave  to,  as  the  captain  says.  I've 
been  talking  with  him.  He's  off  to-morrow  morning, 
bright  and  early,  for  China  ;  and  he  wants  me  to  go  with 
him. 

Lilly.     What!  you,  Harry? 

Harry.  Yes :  he  says  that  it  only  takes  five  years  to 
make  a  fortune  in  China.  Wouldn't  it  be  grand  to  come 
back  in  five  years,  rich,  respected,  and  able  to  snap  my 
fingers  at  the  best  of  'em? 

Lilly.  Yes ;  and  with  your  head  shaved,  and  a  long 
queue  dangling  behind.  Oh  !  I  shouldn't  like  that. 

Harry.  What  would  you  do  if  I  should  accede  to  the 
captain's  proposal? 

Lilly.     Cry  my  eyes  out.     Oh,  you  mustn't  go,  Harry  ! 

Harry.  Well,  I  haven't  gone  yet ;  and,  if  I  don't  make 
up  my  mind  to-night,  my  chance  is  lost.  But  come, 
Lilly  ;  put  on  your  hat,  and  go  take  a  walk.  It's  a  beau- 
tiful moonlight  night. 

Lilly.  Oh,  that  will  be  splendid  !  Wait  till  I  get  my 
hat.  (Buns  off,  R.) 

Harry.  She's  a  dear  little  girl.  She'll  make  some 
fellow  very  happy  one  of  these  days.  Heighho !  I  won- 
der if  it  will  be  me.  Precious  little  chance  I  have  of  ever 
winning  her.  Father  is  evidently  disposed  to  keep  me 
under  his  thumb,  and  bring  me  up  to  a  life  of  idleness. 


THE   LAST    LOAF.  13 

When  I  propose  to  seek  some  occupation  by  which  to 
earn  my  own  living,  he  laughs  at  me,  and  tells  me  the 
place  for  boys  is  at  home.  Boy,  indeed!  He  will  yet 
find  the  boy  can  think  and  act  for  himself.  Why  should 
I  stay  here,  to  be  the  plaything  of  his  changing  humors, 
when  Capt.  Bangs  offers  me  such  a  chance  t&  make  my 
fortune?  why  wait? 

Lilly.  (Outside,  R.)  One  minute,  Harry,  and  I'll  be 
with  you. 

Harry.  Ah  !  there's  the  answer.  The  old,  old  story. 
How  can  I  leave  her? 

Enter  LILLY,  R. 

Lilly.     Come,  Harry,  tie  my  hat,  and  I  am  ready. 
Harry  (tying  the  hat).    Certainly.    What  a  pretty  hat ! 
Lilly.     Do  you  like  it  ?     I'm  glad  of  that. 
Harry.     The  hat  is  pretty,  and  the  face  — 
Lilly.     Now,  Harry  Hanson,  don't  be  foolish.     Why, 
how  long  you  are  tying  it ! 

Harry.     I'm  not  used  to  it,  Lilly. 
Lilly.     Well,  you  needn't  get  so  near  it. 
Harry.     Something  bothers  me. 
Lilly.     What  is  it? 
Harry.     Your  lips.     (Kisses  her.) 

Enter  DICK  BUSTLE,  L.,  with  a  small  account-book  in  his 
hand. 

Dick.     Ahem  !    Now,  then,  what  is  it,  white  or  brown  ? 

LILLY  gives  a  little  scream,  and  steps  back,  R.     HARRY 
starts  to  L.     DICK,  c. 

Harry.     Dick  Bustle,  what  sent  you  here? 


14  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Dick.  Business,  Master  Harry,  business.  I'm  on  my 
rounds,  taking  orders  for  the  morning  bread.  What  is 
it,  Miss  Lilly,  —  white  or  brown?  Either,  both,  or 
neither?  Square,  brick,  family,  twists,  rolls,  or  muf- 
fins? 

Lilly.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  You  must  ask  Patty 
Jones. 

Dick.  But  I  can't  find  her.  She's  not  in  the  domain 
of  pots  and  kettles  ;  and,  if  she  has  retired  to  her  domicile 
beneath  the  eaves,  you  surely  would  not  expect  me  to 
ascend  to  that  hallowed  and  sacred  retreat,  would 
you? 

Harry.  Nonsense,  Dick.  Your  language  is  altogether 
too  fine  for  a  baker. 

Dick.  Well,  I  suppose  it  is.  'Tis  the  fruit  of  my 
early  edication.  I  was  born  for  a  higher  sphere  ;  but 
Fortune,  the  fickle  goddess,  frowned  upon  my  tender 
youth,  and  left  me,  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  to  toil  and 
spin. 

Lilly.  What  an  idea  !  The  lilies  of  the  field  —  "  they 
toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin." 

Dick.  Don't  they?  Well,  I  knew  'twas  one  or  t'other. 
It's  this  confounded  business  bothers  me.  Mixing  so  much 
dough  with  my  hands  rather  mixes  things  in  my  head, 
and  makes  me  — 

Harry.     A  regular  dough-head.     I  see. 

Dick.     Yes,  exactly.     No,  —  no,  —  I  don't  mean  that. 

Harry.  But  I  do.  Dick,  you're  the  best  fellow  in 
the  world  ;  but  you.  do  muddle  things  dreadfully.  Let 
books  alone,  and  stick  to  your  business. 

Dick.     Never !     I'm  determined  to  rise  in  the  world. 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  15 

Harry.  Then  stick  to  your  business.  You'll  find 
plenty  of  opportunities  to  rise  in  that. 

Dick.  No.  Master  Harry:  I'm  not  in  my  true  spear. 
Fate  lias  something  better  in  store  for  me.  I'm  deter- 
mined to  be  a  philosopher,  or  an  inventor,  or  a  dis- 
coverer. I'll  be  a  second  Christopher  Columbus,  and 
discover  a  new  world.  By-the-by,  how  about  that  little 
China  scheme.  Made  up  your  mind  to  go? 

Harry.     No  :  I've  given  it  up. 

Dick.  Given  it  up !  You  don't  mean  it !  Why, 
there  never  was  such  a  chance.  Fame,  fortune,  every 
thing,  awaiting  you  in  the  great  empire  of  pigtails  and 
Schushong.  You  don't  mean  it! 

Harry.  Yes,  I  do,  Dick.  There  are  ties  that  bind 
me  here,  that  I  haven't  the  heart  to  break.  Come,  Lilly, 
are  you  ready  ? 

Lilly.  Quite,  Harry.  Good-by,  Dick  —  I  mean  Mr. 
Bustle,  philosopher,  discoverer,  inventor,  baker.  Ha, 
ha! 

Harry.  Stick  to  your  dough,  Dick.  (Exeunt  LILLY 
and  HARRY,  L.) 

Dick.  Stick  to  my  dough  !  Not  i.f  I  knows  myself. 
Now,  there's  a  youth,  with  Fortune  a-winkin'  at  him  with 
both  eyes,  turuki'  away  and  goin'  straight  to  destruction 
with  a  pretty  girl  a-hangiu'  on  his  arm.  Ties  that  bind 
him  !  Nothin'  on  airth  but  that  gal's  apron-string.  Jest 
let.  old  Hanson  find  out  what's  goin'  on,  and  he'd  snap 
that  air  tie  shorter  than  pie-crust.  Another  slip-up, 
Dick.  Buttered  side  down,  agin,  Bastle.  I  did  hopo 
Harry  would  have  taken  up  with  Capt.  Bangs's  offer  ;  and 
then  with  me  to  protect  his  gentle  youth,  how  we  would 


16  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

hev  made  them  air  Chinamen  howl !  But  it's  no  use. 
Iii  the  poetic  language  of  Smith,  Jones,  or  some  great 
poet,  — 

I  never  had  a  piece  of  bread 

Particularly  lon^  and  wide, 
But  what  it  fell  upon  the  floor, 

And  always  on  the  buttered  side. 

What  is  to  be,  won't,  on  this  particular  occasion,  the 
prophets  and  so  forth  to  the  contrary  notwithstaudin'. 

Enter  PATTY  JONES,  R. 

Patty.     Law,  Mr.  Bustle,  is  that  you  ? 

Dick  (putting  out  his  account-look*).  Exactly.  White 
or  brown?  either,  both,  or  neither?  Brick,  family, 
twist,  square,  rolls,  or  muffins? 

Patty.  Law,  Mr.  Bustle,  I  don't  know.  You  must 
ask  Mrs.  Ashtou. 

Dick.  And  will  you  be  kind  enough,  Miss  Patty,  and 
obliging  enough,  Miss  Jones,  to  seek  Mrs.  Ashtou,  aud 
propound  to  her  the  necessary  questions,  whereby  I  may 
obtain  the  kuowledge^of  her  requirements  in  the  way  of 
bread,  Miss  Jones? 

Patty.  Law,  Mr.  Bustle,  in  what  a  highly  edifying, 
romantic,  and  elegant  style  you  do  talk !  Been  at  the 
dictionary  agin,  hey? 

Dick.     Dictionary !    'tis   my  pocket   companion ;    the 
pillow  on  which    this   weary   head    reposes    when    night 
falls   upon   the    tired    earth,   and  —  and  —  the   what — 
what  you  may  call  'ems  —  fold  —  their  —  things  — 

Patty.     Ha,  ha  !     Dick,  it's  no  use  :  you'll  never  be  a 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  17 

scholar.  So  drop  the  big  words,  and  sit  down  and  let's 
have  a  real  good  old-fashioned  gossip. 

Dick.  With  all  my  heart,  Patty  Jones.  I'll  lay  aside 
my  learning,  and  he,  like  you,  a  common  clod. 

Patty.  Clod  !  and  pray  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 
A  common  clod,  indeed  !  Mr.  Bustle,  there's  the  door. 

Dick.  Now,  don't  get  mad,  Patty  :  'twas  only  a  lapsus 
linguae. 

Patty.  Oli!  was  that  all?  Well,  Dick,  I'll  forgive 
you.  Do  you  know  I've  got  something  nice  to  tell  you? 
I'm  going  somewhere. 

Dick.  Well,  that  is  a  piece  of  information  highly  con- 
ducive — 

Patty.     Mr.  Bustle,  there's  the  door. 

Dick.  Now,  don't  get  mad,  Patty.  I  must  let  off 
these  big  words  once  in  a  while. 

Patty.  Very  well,  Mr.  Bustle  :  when  you  feel  inclined 
to  do  so,  just  waste  them  on  the  desert  air,  not  on  me. 

Dick.     You  are  going  somewhere? 

Patty.  Oli,  yes  !  I'm  going  to  singing-school  to-mor- 
row night  with  Tom  Cliubbs. 

Dick.  What !  you,  Patty  Jones,  —  a  high-toned 
damsel,  —  thus  to  demean  yourself  by  accepting  the  at- 
tentions of  such  an  insignificant,  ignoble  — 

Patty.     Mr.  Bustle,  there's  the  door. 

Dick.  Let  it  stay  there.  Tom  Chubbs,  indeed  ! — a 
man  who  cuts  up  hogs,  slices  steaks,  dissects  calves. 
Confound  him,  he's,  nothing  but  a  calf  himself! 

Patty.  He's  clever,  polite,  and  don't  use  big  words. 
Why  shouldn't  I  go  with  him? 

Dick.     He's  nothing  but  a  butcher. 

2 


18  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Patty.     And  you  nothing  but  a  baker. 

Dick.     Don't  go  with  him,  Patty. 

Patty.     Why  not?     He's  dying  for  me. 

Dick.  And  so  am  I.  O  Patty  Jones !  you  little 
know  the  heart  that  beats  within  this  tender  breast. 
Turn  from  this  bloody  butcher,  and  smile  upon  the  high- 
toned  baker. 

Patty.  Dick  Bustle,  you're  a  donkey.  Your  head, 
never  too  steady  on  your  shoulders,  has  been  completely 
turned  by  your  trying  to  fill  it  with  scraps  of  wisdom, 
tumbled  in  like  old  iron  in  a  junk-shop.  High-toned 
baker,  indeed !  I  wouldn't  have  you  if  there  vva'u't 
another  man  in  creation. 

Dick.  Buttered  side  down  agin,  Bustle  !  Patty  Jones, 
farewell.  How  I  have  loved  you!  I  —  you  —  that  is, 
both  of  us  —  confound  it,  I'm  going  off  to  the  far  anti- 
podes, where  woman's  smile  can  never  reach  me  more. 
I'm  a  broken-hearted  man,  from  this  time  henceforth 
and  forever  more. 

Patty.  Save  the  pieces,  Dick.  They  may  come  handy 
some  time. 

Dick.     And  can  you  jest  at  such  a  time? 

Patty.     Of  course  I  can.      (Sings.) 

"  For  I  care  for  nobody,  —  no,  not  I, 
And  nobody  cares  for  me," 

except  Tom  Chubbs  the  butcher. 

Dick.  Oh  !  that's  the  last  camel  that  broke  the  — 
no  —  no  —  that's  the  last  straw  — 

Hanson.  (Outside,  L.)  Doors  wide  open,  and  nobody 
at  home ! 


THE  LAST   LOAF.  19 

Patty.  Gracious  !  why,  that's  Mr.  Hanson  !  (Exit,L,.) 
Dick.  O  Lord  !  Old  Hanson  !  Buttered  side  down 
agiu,  Bustle  !  Now,  what's  to  be  done?  He'll  find  me 
here,  and  won't  there  be  a  breeze !  This  comes  of 
neglecting  business  for  pleasure.  I  wish  I  was  well  out 
of  this.  He's  coming  this  way,  and  I  can't  get  out  of  it. 
He  won't  stop  long  ;  so  I'll  make  a  merit  of  necessity,  and 
crawl  under  that  lounge.  (Crawls  under  lounge,  face 
towards  audience.) 

Enter  PATTY  and  MR.  HANSON,  L. 

Hanson.     You're  sure  he  is  at  home,  Patty? 

Patty.  Oh,  yes,  sir  !  he's  up  stairs  with  Mrs.  Ashton. 
Sit  down,  sir,  and  I'll  run  and  tell  him  you  are  here. 
Why,  where  can  Dick  have  gone?  (Exit,  R.) 

Hanson.  Snug  quarters  here.  Mark  is  doing  well, 
and  that  wife  of  his  is  a  jewel.  "Well,  we  both  started 
fair  in  the  world ;  but  fate  has  dealt  kindly  with  him, 
while  upon  me  she  has  showered  her  hardest  blows. 
How  comfortable  every  thing  looks  here  !  Mark  can't 
have  laid  by  much  money :  that's  where  I  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  him  ;  but  I'd  give  it  all  for  the  happiness  lie 
must  enjoy  in  this  little  nest. 

Enter  MARK,  R. 

Marie.     Why,  Cleb,  old  boy,  I'm  glad  to  see  you ! 

Hanson.     Ah,  Mark  I  thank  you,  thank  you. 

Mark.  Sit  down,  and  make  yourself  at  home.  We 
don't  see  half  enough  of  each  other.  (They  sit  R.  and 
L.  of  table.) 

Hanson.     That's  true,  Mark.  One  would  scarce  believe 


20  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

that  you  and  I  were  once  such  Cronies.  .Why,  twenty 
years  ago  we  were  inseparable. 

Mark.  Yes,  always  together ;  gay,  happy,  thought- 
less boys,  up  to  all  manner  of  mischief,  and  ever  ready 
for  a  gay  time.  Ah  !  those  days,  those  good  old  days  ! 
O  Cleb,  would  I  were  a  boy  again  ! 

Hanson.  What !  do  you  not  enjoy  this  happy  wedded 
life,  this  peaceful  home? 

Mark.  To  be  sure  I  do.  Why,  Cleb,  there's  not  a 
happier  man  in  this  city  than  I.  But  you  know  there's 
sometimes  a  wish  in  a  man's  heart  to  go  back  on  life's 
journey,  to  smooth  some  rough  spot  where  he  stumbled. 

Hanson.     I  scarcely  understand  you. 

Mark.  You  know,  Cleb,  in  those  days  I  was  a  little 
wild  ;  and  the  recollection  of  that  sometimes  saddens  my 
thoughtful  hours. 

Hanson.  Yes,  I  know;  but  why  regret  it?  You 
have  settled  down  into  a  quiet,  happy  man  of  family. 
There  are  no  shadows  now  in  your  life,-  no  rough  places 
in  the  road  you  travel.  Life  has  been  all  bright  with 
you  ;  but  with  me  — 

Mark.  Ah,  Cleb  !  you  have  tasted  sorrow.  No  dear 
wife  to  cheer  your  home  !  How  lonely  it  must  be  ! 

Hanson.  It  is,  indeed,  Mark.  That  it  is  lonely,  deso* 
late,  is  the  reason  of  my  being  here  to-night. 

Mark.  Well,  I'm  glad  you  came.  Come  often,  Cleb. 
Make  yourself  at  home  with  us  :  we'll  try  to  cheer  you. 
I'll  call  Kate  down,  and  we'll  have  a  pleasant  evening 
together. 

Hanson.  One  moment,  Mark.  I  have  a  proposition 
to  make  to  you. 


THE   LAST  LOAF.  21 

Mark.  Ah,  indeed  !  Well,  go  ahead  :  if  there's  any 
thing  I  can  do  for  you,  you've  only  to  say  the  words. 

Hanson.  My  home  is  indeed  desolate  ;  and  you  can 
aid  me  in  attempting  to  make  it  more  cheerful.  You 
have  a  daughter,  Mark. 

Mark.  (Aside.)  O  Lord  !  he's  found  out  Harry  and 
Lilly  are  intimate.  (Aloud.)  Yes,  a  dear  girl. 

Hanson.  She  is  indeed,  —  one  who  could  make  a  home 
bright  and  happy. 

Mark.  (Aside.)  Now,  does  he  suppose  I'm  going  to 
lose  that  little  girl,  and  only  sixteen?  (Aloud.)  That 
she  could,  and  can  in  a  few  years. 

Hanson.  -In  a  few  years?  She's  quite  old  enough  to 
marry. 

Mark.     Yes,  in  a  few  years. 

Hanson.  I  want  you  to  let  her  come  to  my  house,  —  a 
bright,  happy  influence,  to  charm  away  the  gloom  which 
now  shadows  it. 

Mark.  Well,  Cleb,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.  I've  seen  this  thing  growing,  but  hardly  expected 
it  would  so  soon  blossom.  They  are  very  fond  of  each 
other. 

Hanson.     They  !     To  whom  do  you  refer  ? 

Mark.     Why,  my  Lilly  and  your  Harry. 

Hanson.     My  Harry? 

Mark.  Certainly.  Ain't  that  what  you  are  driving 
at  ?  You  want  Harry  and  Lilly  to  make  a  match  of  it. 

Hanson.     Never.  « 

Mark.     Hallo  !     What  do  you  want,  then? 

Hanson.  I  want  your  daughter  Lilly  in  my  house 
as  —  my  wife. 


22  THE    LAST    LOAF. 

Mark.     The  d — euce,  you  do  ! 

Dick.     The  old  catamarau  ! 

Hanson.  I  have  seen  her  often,  admired  her  sweet 
and  gentle  disposition,  and  believe  that  in  her  I  could 
find  a  solace  for  all  my  bitter  hours. 

Dick.     'Twould  be  a  bitter  pill  for  her ! 

Mark.  Cleb,  you  must  be  jesting.  You're  old  enough 
to  be  her  father. 

Hanson.  And  not  too  old  to  be  her  loving  husband. 
I  am  in  earnest,  Mark.  Give  her  to  me.  I  will  love 
and  cherish  her. 

Mark.     But  she  is  so  young. 

Hanson.  I  will  wait  till  she  grows  older  :  only  promise 
she  shall  one  day  be  mine. 

Mark.  I  cannot  do  that.  Her  wishes  must  be  con- 
sulted. She  may  not  fancy  you.  I  don't  mean  that. 
Hang  me  if  I  know  what  I  do  mean.  You  have  taken 
me  by  surprise.  The  idea  of  your  wanting  to  marry  my 
daughter ! 

Hanson.  If  I  should  succeed  in  making  her  love  me, 
would  you  then  give  your  consent? 

Mark.  Well,  —  hang  it,  Cleb,  I  won't  have  any  thing 
to  do  with  this  business.  You  must  talk  to  Kate  :  she'll 
let  you  know  what  we'll  do.  I'll  call  her  down,  and  leave 
you  together.  I've  got  an  errand  at  John  Fisher's  store. 
I'll  run  down  there,  and  you  just  drop  in  and  let  me 
know  the  upshot  of  this  affair.  (Aside.)  Kate'll  settle 
him  :  leave  her  alone  for  that.  (Exit,  it.) 

Hanson.  The  same  old  easy  Mark,  —  shifting  the 
responsibility  upon  his  wife.  She's  a  harder  customer  to 
deal  with  ;  but  I  think  I  know  a  way  by  which  even  she 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  23 

can  be  made  to  consent.     The  girl  is  lovely,  bewitching, 
and  I  am  determined  to  have  her. 

Enter  MARK,  with  hat  and  coat,  and  KATE,  R. 

Mark  (speaking  as  he  enters).  I  won't  be  gone  long. 
Here's  an  old  friend  wants  a  little  private  conversation 
with  you. 

Kate.     Ah  !  Mr.  Hanson,  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 

Hanson.  Mrs.  Ashton,  this  is  indeed  a  pleasure.  I 
declare,  you  are  looking  finely. 

Mark.  Isn't  she,  Cleb?  She's  a  woman  that  always 
looks  lovely;  and  her  sweet,  winning  disposition  —  oh, 
my  ! 

Kale.     Mark,  you're  a  giddy,  good-for-nothing  — 

Mark.  I  know  it ;  and  you're  a  —  But  I  can't  stop 
to  tell  you  :  'twould  take  too  long.  I'll  be  buck  soon.  I 
won't  apologize  for  running  away,  Cleb,  for  I  know 
that's  just  what  you  want  me  to  do.  Kate  will  entertain 
you  far  better  than  I  could  (aside),  and  crush  your 
hopes  too,  or  I'm  mistaken.  (Exit,  L.) 

Dick.  Old  Hanson's  got  a  batch,  that  won't  knead  so 
easy,  I  reckon. 

Kate.  You  see,  Mr.  Hanson,  Mark  is  still  the  gay, 
lively  soul  you  have  always  found  him,  in  spite  of  the 
lapse  of  years. 

Hanson.  Yes,  yes  :  as  gay  and  lively  as  when  he  and 
I  both  fell  in  love  with  the  same  pretty  girl,  —  Kate 
Stewart. 

Kate.     Ah,  you  still  remember  that? 

Hanson.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  He,  lucky  dog,  car- 
ried off  the  prize  ;  while  I  — 


24  THE    LAST   LOAF. 

Kate.  Found  a  far  richer  prize  to  strive  for,  in  the 
heart  of  Annie  Clare.  You  won  her  heart ;  and  no  better, 
truer  wife  ever  blessed  a  man  than  she. 

Hanson.  She  was  a  faithful  wife  ;  but  all  her  virtues 
could  never  efface  the  recollection  of  the  love  I  bore  you, 
Kate. 

Kate.     Mr.  Hanson ! 

Hanson.  Kate  Ashton,  you  little  know  how  great  a 
sacrifice  I  made  when  I  gave  you  up  to  Mark  Ashton. 
Ay,  gave  you  up ;  for  I  had  such  influence  over  him, 
that,  had  I  but  spoken  the  word,  you  would  never  have 
been  his  wife.  But  I  saw  you  loved  him ;  and,  rather 
than  have  you  suffer,  I  sacrificed  my  love,  and  gave  you 
up.  Kate,  this  happy  home,  this  loving  heart  you  prize 
so  highly,  is  all  my  gift.  May  I  not  ask  some  return? 

Kate.  Mr.  Hanson,  without  acknowledging  the  gift 
you  profess  to  have  bestowed  upon  me,  believing  that  the 
heart  of  Mark  Ashton  was  all  mine  from  the  time  we 
first  met,  beyond  the  power  of  any  living  man  to  wrest 
from  me,  may  I  inquire  what  return  you  covet? 

Hanson.  Your  daughter  Lilly,  growing  up  into  the 
image  of  her  I  once  so  deeply  loved.  Give  her  to  me.  I 
ask  you,  Kate,  to  let  her  be  my  wife. 

Kate.     Caleb  Hanson,  are  you  mad? 

Hanson.  As  some  atonement  for  what  I  suffered  in 
losing  you,  I  beg  you  give  her  to  me.  I  will  love  her, 
cherish  her  ;  her  slightest  wish  shall  command  me.  All 
that  money  can  purchase  shall  be  hers. 

Kate.  Caleb  Hanson,  no  more  of  this.  Lilly  is  but  a 
child,  too  young  to  think  of  marriage,  especially  with  a 
man  of  your  age.  When  she  is  old  enough  to  decide  for 
herself,  her  choice  will  be  mine. 


THE    LAST    LOAF.  25; 

Hanson.  Oh  !  I  will  wait :  only  use  your  influence, 
and  she  may  be  led  to  look  upon  me  as  her  future  hus- 
band. That  is  all  I  ask. 

Kate.  You  ask  too  much.  If  ever  my  influence  is 
exerted,  'twill  be  to  make  her  the  wife  of  your  sou 
Harry.  She  can  never  be  yours. 

Dick.     Buttered  side  down,  Hanson  ! 

Hanson.  My  son  Harry  !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  boy  presumes  — 

Kate.  He  loves  Lilly  ;  of  that  I  am  sure.  A  mother's 
eyes  are  sharp.  The  young  people  are  attached  ;  and  the 
best  thing  you  can  do,  Caleb  Hanson,  is  to  laugh  at  your 
silly  passion,  and  help  me  to  make  them  happy. 

Hanson.  Never  !  I'll  turn  that  insolent  puppy  into 
the  street :  he  shall  never  have  a  penny  of  my  money. 
He  marry  !  The  idle  vagabond  ! 

Kate.  And  who's  to  blame  if  he  is  idle?  Have  a 
care,  Caleb :  he's  ambitious ;  he'll  slip  away  from  you 
before  you  know  it ;  and  what  he  attempts  he  has  energy 
to  pursue.  You  are  making  a  boy  of  him,  when  his  true 
heart  is  panting  to  do  a  man's  work  in  the  world.  Ay, 
and  he'll  do  it  yet. 

Hanson.  So  I've  found  a  rival  in  my  own  son  !  and 
you  —  you  sneer  at  me,  and  take  his  part.  Have  a  care, 
Kate  !  I'm  called  a  hard  man.  I  never  undertook  any 
thing  but  what  I  succeeded  ;  and  I'll  not  fail  in  this.  I 
will  have  that  girl  for  my  wife. 

Kate.     Not  with  my  consent. 

Hanson.  Without  it,  then.  Mark  Ashton  has  one 
weakness  that  you  dream  not  of.  I  know  him  better 
than  you.  Upon  this  I  will  work.  You  shall  find  your- 


26  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

self  neglected,  your  idol  crumbling  to  dust,  your  pretty 
nest  scattered  to  the  winds,  want  staring  you  in  the  face  ; 
and,  when  you  are  brought  to  your  last  loaf,  perhaps  my 
silly  passion  may  find  some  recognition  in  your  misery. 
We  shall  meet  again.  {Exit,  L.) 

Kale.  Can  this  be  Caleb  Hanson,  — the  quiet,  gentle 
Caleb  Hanson?  What  can  he  mean?  One  weakness  I 
dream  not  of?  But  he  sha'n't  have  Lilly.  What  slum- 
bering demon  have  I  awakened  ?  Lilly  his  wife  !  —  better 
neglect,  want.  Merciful  Heavens  !  what  terrible  blow  is 
about  to  fall  upon  us?  He  is  a  hard  man,  —  relentless, 
implacable.  He  has  some  horrible  purpose  in  his  black 
heart.  Let  him  do  his  worst.  My  child  shall  find  a 
champion  here,  watchful  and  wary,  to  guard  and  protect 
her.  His  wife !  While  a  mother  can  battle  for  her 
child — never!  {Exit,  R.) 

Dick  {crawling  from  under  the  lounge).  Well,  I've 
heard  of  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  difficulties,  but 
I  had  no  idea  so  much  knowledge  could  be  found  under 
a  lounge.  What  an  infernal  scoundrel  my  respected 
master  is,  to  be  sure  !  The  very  iti — in — in — carcera- 
tion  of  diabolical  wickedness.  Marry  Lilly  Ashtou  !  I'd 
like  to  see  him  attempt  it.  Harry  will  have  a  word  to 
say  about  that.  So  the  old  man  will  turn  Harry  out  of 
doors  !  I've  no  doubt  of  that ;  but  he  shall  find  a  friend 
in  Dick  Bustle,  or  I'm  no  scholar.  Lord,  what  a  muddle 
this  world  is,  anyhow  !  The  old  man's  got  the  money, 
but  we've  got  the  brains  ;  and  it's  Bustle's  opinion  that 
money  iu  this  heat  will  find  itself  buttered  side  down. 

Torn.     (Outside.)     Now,  P-P-P-atty,  d-d-d-on't. 

Patty.  (Outside.)  It's  no  use  talking,  Tom  Chubbs : 
I'm  determined. 


THE   LAST    LOAF.  27 

Dick.  Hallo !  Here's  Chubbs,  nrter  Patty.  The 
darued  stuttering  donkey  !  I'd  like  to  hear  their  conversa- 
tion ;  and,  as  this  lounge  appears  to  be  a  safe  hiding-place, 
I'll  try  it  again.  {Crawls  under  lounge.) 

Enter  PATTY,  followed  l>y  TOM  CUUBBS,  L. 

Tom.  P-P-P-atty  J-J-J-ones,  1-1-1-isten  to  the  v-v-v-oice 
of  af-f-f-ection  that  b-b-b-ubbles  in  this  b-b-b-osom. 

Dick.     Cubbies  !     Sputters,  I  should  say. 

Tom.  My  t-t-t-ongue  is  wc-we-we-ak  ;  I  ca-ca-ca-n't 
sp-p-p-eak  my  1-1-1-ove. 

Dick.     Then  whistle  it,  my  boy. 

Patty.  Oh,  do  go  away,  Tom  Cliubbs!  Between  the 
butcher  and  the  baker,  I'm  heartily  sick  of  this  nonsense. 
If  you've  got  any  thing  to  say,  speak  up  like  a  man. 

Tom.  D-d-d-idn't  you  p-p-p-romisc  to  g-g-g-o  with  me 
to  s-s-s-inging  sc-sc-sc-hool  ? 

Patty.  Of  course  I  did  ;  and  I'm  ready  to  keep  my 
promise. 

Tom.  D-d-d-idn't  you  p-p-p-romise  to  make  me  the 
ha-lia-ha-ppiest  of  me-mc-mc-n  ? 

Patty.  If  going  to  singing-school  is  going  to  make 
you  the  happiest  of  men,  I  did. 

Tom.     Then  s-s-s-ay  you  1-1-1-ove  me. 

Patty.  I  sha'n't  say  any  thing  of  the  sort.  Can't  I 
go  to  singing-school  with  you  without  loving  you? 

Tom.  N-n-n-o.  I  c-c-c-au't  spend  my  m-m-m-oney 
without  s-s-s-ome  return,  c-c-c-an  1? 

Patty.  You  mercenary  butcher  !  Is  not  my  company 
reward  enough? 

Tom.     N-u-n-o,  not  quite.     I  waut  you  to  m-m-m-arry 


28  THE    LAST   LOAF. 

m-m-m-e  some  time ;  and,  if  you  wo-wo-wo-on't  m-m-in- 
arry  m-m-m-e  some  time,  w-w-\v-hat's  the  use  of  s-s-s- 
pendiug  m-m-m-oney,  s-s-s-ay? 

Dick.  Chubbs  ain't  such  a  fool  as  I  took  him  to  be. 
Philosophy  in  a  butcher's  frock !  A  sage  of  modern 
Greece ! 

Patty.     Tom  Chubbs ! 

Tom.     M-m-m-am. 

Patty.     There's  the  door. 

Tom.     Y-y-y-es,  m-m-m-am. 

Patty.  The  quicker  you  place  yourself  on  the  other 
side  of  it,  the  better.  You're  a  low,  mean,  greedy  wretch  ; 
and  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  live. 

Dick.     Buttered  side  down,  Chubbs! 

Patty.  For  the  future,  you'll  leave  your  beef,  mutton, 
poultry,  and  lard  at  the  kitchen-door,  and  depart  in 
silence. 

Tom.  Y-y-y-es,  m-m-m-am.  I-I-Iunders-s-s-tand  you. 
It's  all  the  w-w-w-ork  of  that  D-D-D-ick  B-B-B-ustle : 
he's  g-g-g-aiued  your  af-f-f-ections,  and  uo\v  you  w-\v- 
w-ant  to  wh-wh-whistle  me  off. 

Patty.  Dick  Bustle,  indeed  !  Do  you  think  I  would 
listen  to  that  low  baker? 

Dick  (crawling  out}.     I  think  you  will,  Patty. 

Patty.     Dick  Bustle,  you  here? 

Dick.     Accidentally,  Patty.     Quite  accidentally. 

Tom.  C-c-c-onfound  you,  D-D-D-ick  B-B-B-ustle! 
you've  b-b-b-en  1-1-l-isteuing. 

Dick.  Very  attentively,  Chubbs.  And  I  must  say, 
it's  very  cruel  to  slight  so  much  love,  when  it  is  such  an 
effort  to  express  it.  Chubbs,  let  us  be  friends.  There's 


THE   LAST  LOAF.  29 

my  hand.  We  are  blighted  beings.  We  have  both 
showered  our  palpitating  hearts  upon  the  same  object. 
Let  us  retire  to  some  unfrequented  spot,  and  there  mingle 
our  tears. 

Patty.     You're  a  couple  of  fools. 

Dick.     You  hear  that,  Chubbs?     Oh,  how  I  loved  that 


woman 


Ghubls.     S-s-s-o  did  I. 

Dick.     The  wealth  of  affection  I  lavished  upon  her  ] 

Tom.  S-s-s-o  did  I.  T-t-t-wo  d-d-d-ollars  f'-f-f-or  sing- 
ing sc-sc-sc-hool. 

Dick.  Come,  Chubbs,  let's  go.  Patty  Jones,  farewell. 
You  will  repent  this  cruelty  to  one  who  loved  not  wisely, 
but  too  well.  There  will  come  a  time  when  the  still, 
small  voice  of  conscience  will  whisper  to  you  — 

Patty.     Shut  up,  you  donkey. 

Tom.  C-c-c-ruel  P-P-P-atty,  f-f-f-arewell :  my  h-h- 
h-eart  is  b-b-b-roken,  my  hopes  are  b-b-b — 

Dick.  Buttered  side  down  !  Come  on.  (Exeunt 
DICK  and  TOM,  L.) 

Patty.  Well,  I've  lost  them  both  !  This  comes  of 
having  two  strings  to  a  bow.  I  don't  care :  there's  as 
good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  was  caught ;  and  I'm  not 
going  to  break  my  heart  for  either  of  them.  Dick  Bustle 
is  worth  the  catching ;  but  as  for  that  Tom  Chubbs,  if 
he  ever  shows  his  face  here  again,  I'll  scald  him.  The 
mean,  contemptible  wretch  ! 

Enter  Mus.  A.,  R. 

Mrs.  A.  Patty,  what's  the  matter?  Who  are  you 
fjoiu-j  to  scald  ? 


30  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Patty.     Only  the  cat,  marm. 

Mrs.  A.     And,  pray,  what  has  puss  been  doing  now? 

Pally.  Upsetting  every  thing,  as  usual.  Just  let  me 
catch  him,  that's  all ! 

Mrs.  A.  Don't  be  angry,  Patty.  Poor  thing,  he 
knows  no  better. 

Patty.  I  know  that,  marm  ;  but  I'll  lenrn  him  better 
manners,  or  my  name  is  not  Patty  Jones.  The  merce- 
nary wretch  !  After  I'd  promised  to  go  with  him  to 
singing-school  too  !  . 

Mrs.  A.  The  cat  invite  you  to  singing-school !  Why, 
what  arc  you  talking  about? 

Patty.  Indeed,  marm,  I  don't  know.  It  isn't  the 
cat  at  all.  It's  Tom  Chubbs. 

Mrs.  A.  Oh  !  Tom  Chubbs.  Why,  I  thought  Dick 
Bustle  was  tbc  favorite. 

Patty.  So  he  was  ;  but  I  changed  my  mind  for  Tom 
Chubbs :  and  now  I've  changed  it  again  ;  and  I  won't 
have  any  thing  to  do  with  either  of  them.  I'll  scald 
Chubbs  if  he  comes  here  again  ;  and  as  for  Dick  Bustle  — 

Enter  DICK,  L. 

Dick.  White  or  brown,  Mrs.  Ashton  ?  Square,  brick, 
family,  or  twist? 

Patty  (smiling}.     Why,  Dick!     Back  again? 

Dick.  Yes:  I  am  back  again.  Business  must  be 
attended  to  ;  so,  if  you'll  please  give  me  the  order  for  the 
morning  bread,  I'll  be  obliged  to  you,  Mrs.  Ashton. 

Mrs.  A.  You  know  I  always  leave  that  to  Patty,  Mr. 
Bustle. 

Patty.  Come  to  the  kitchen,  Mr.  Bustle,  and  I  will 
give  you  the  order. 


THE   LAST    LOAF.  31 

Dick.  Well,  now,  I  don't  know  about  that,  Miss 
Jones.  You've  already  kept  me  gallivantin'  about  this 
house  for  half  an  hour ;  and,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you, 
I'll  stop  here. 

Patty.  You're  very  fond  of  this  room,  ain't  you? 
You  like  the  furniture,  the  lounge,  and  the  carpet  under 
the  lounge.  Mrs.  Ashtou  — 

Dick.     Patty,  don't :  let's  go  to  the  kitchen. 

Patty.    But  I  want  to  tell  Mrs.  Ashton  where  I  found  — 

Dick.  "  The  last  rose  of  summer."  Yes,  I  know  ; 
but  come  and  give  me  the  order  for  the  bread.  I'm  in  a 
dreadful  hurry. 

Patty.  You  always  are.  But  come  along,  and  we'll 
have  a  quiet  chat  in  the  kitchen.  (Exit,  L.) 

Dick.  Quiet  chat !  I  don't  like  to  trust  myself  alone 
with  her,  for  she'll  have  me  over  ears  in  love  with  her 
again.  But  business  must  be  attended  to.  (Exit,  L.) 

Mrs.  A.  I  wonder  where  Mark  can  be.  Caleb  Han- 
son has  made  me  very  uneasy  with  his  threats.  Foolish 
threats  ;  for  I  know  that  Mark  is  so  noble  and  good, 
that  he  can  have  no  power  over  him.  But  I  wish  he  was 
safe  at  home. 

Mark.  ( Outside,  L.)  'Sno  use  talking,  Cleb ;  I  say 
you  shall  come  in.  We've  had  a  jolly  time,  old  boy,  a 
jolly  time  ;  and  we'll  talk  it  over,  and  you  sha'n't  go  — 
go  home  till  morning,  old  boy,  you  sha'n't.  Come  along. 

Enter  MAKE,  intoxicated,  leaning  heavily  on  CALEB,  his 
dress  disordered. 

Hallo,  Kate!  'sthat  you?  This  is  Cleb  Hanson! 
Glor'us  fellow,  Cleb  Hanson.  We've  been  having  a 


32  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

little  punch,  —  a  little  punch,  —  ain't  we,  Cleb?  Glor'us 
punch,  —  capital  punch!  It's  a  glor'us  jolly  time.  It's 
like  the  good  old  times  before  we  was  married,  ain't  it, 
Cleb?  I  say,  Cleb,  it's  too  much  for  me.  My  head's  a 
spinning  round  and  round  and  round ;  but  it's  glor'us 
punch.  Where's  something  to  sit  down  on?  The  chairs 
are  all  dancing  round  !  Wait  a  minute,  till  a-catch  that 
lounge  (falls  heavily  on  to  the  lounge). 

Kate.     Why,  Mark,  Mark  !  what  is  the  matter? 

Mark.  Matter !  I's  al'ight,  I  tell  you  ;  I's  al'ight. 
It's  the  punch,  —  ain't  it,  Cleb,  —  he  knows,  don't  you, 
CU'b?  We  both  knows  ;  for  we're  all  jolly  good  fellows, 
we're  all  jolly  good  fellows,  —  we're  all  jolly  —  good  — 
fellows.  (Falls  asleep.^) 

Kate.     Caleb  Hanson,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this? 

Caleb.  Why,  isn't  it  plain  ?  Your  noble  husband  has 
been  indulging  a  little,  and,  as  he  says,  it's  all  right. 

Kate.  Caleb  Hanson,  you  have  been  tempting  my 
husband  to  drink. 

Caleb.  Well,  tempting  is  a  pretty  hard  word,  Mrs. 
Ashtou.  I  did  invite  him  to  drink,  —  something  I  have 
not  done  for  years  ;  for,  before  you  knew  him,  there  was 
a  time  when  a  glass  of  liquor  would  excite  him  to  such  a 
degree,  that  his  only  safety  was  in  totally  abstaining 
from  its  use.  He  has  shunned  it  as  he  would  poison. 
But  now  he  is  older  and  wiser  ;  and,  knowing  that  our 
families  were  to  be  united  before  long,  I  thought  it  best 
to  test  him.  I  told  you  I  had  great  influence  with  him  ; 
that,  in  the  old  days,  I  could  lead  him  as  I  pleased.  You 
see  I  still  have  the  power. 

Kate.  O  man,  man  !  Is  there  not  pity  in  your  heart  ? 
Can  you  so  basely  betray  his  trusting  nature  ? 


THE    LAST   LOAF.  33 

Caleb.  Kate,  I  must  have  Lilly.  Say  the  word,  and 
to-morrow  shall  find  Mark  Ashtoti  the  mail  he  was  yes- 
terday. Refuse,  and  you  know  the  consequences. 

Kate.     Do  your  worst.     You  shall  not  have  her. 

Caleb.  As  you  please.  There  lies  your  husband, 
drunk,  and  • 

Enter  LILLY  and  HARRY,  L. 

I  put  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

Harry.     You!     You  did  this? 

Lilly  (crossing  to  lounge)  O  father,  father !  What 
ails  you,  father? 

Hanson.  Boy,  go  home :  you  are  not  wanted  here. 
Do  you  hear  ?  Home,  at  once. 

Harry.  Just  one  word,  before  I  obey  you.  Did  you 
speak  the  truth  when  you  said  you  put  the  glass  to  Mark 
Ashton's  lips  ! 

Hanson.  What's  that  to  you  ?  Am  I  to  be  lectured 
by  my  own  son? 

Kate.     O  Harry  !     It  is  true  !     It  is  true  ! 

Harry.  Then  to  your  home  I  go  no  more.  I  am  no 
longer  son  of  yours.  I  have  borne  insults  from  you  that 
no  father  ever  put  upon  the  son  he  loved.  I  have  been 
brought  up  iu  idleness,  and  made  to  feel  the  power  of 
your  will./  I  have  been  taunted  with  my  dependence ; 
but,  from  this  time,  I  will  depend  upon  my  brains  and 
hands  alone  to  make  a  way  in  the  world.  You  have 
cruelly  wronged  those  who  love  me^J  You  have  placed 
the  poisonous  cup  to  the  lipsbfa  weak  man,  who  trusted 
you.J  You  have  disgraced  the  name  I  bear ;  but,  with 
heaven's  help,  I  will  clear  the  name  you  have  so  foully 
disgraced. 


34  THE    LAST    LOAF. 

Hanson.  Bah  !  Boyish  sentiment.  Go  :  beg,  starve 
in  the  street,  for  that  will  he  your  end.  Never  look  to 
me  lor  aid,  for  I've  done  with  you.  You  are  uo  longer 

son  of  mine. 

Enter  BUSTLE,  L. 

Bustle  (to  Harry).  Capt.  Bangs  is  looking  for  you. 
It's  to  hear  your  answer.  ki  No,"  I  suppose. 

Harry.     You're  wrong.      It  is  "  Yes  :  "  I  will  go. 

Bustle.  You  don't  say  so  !  Well,  Bustle,  you're  not 
buttered  side  down  this  time.  I'm  with  you  !  Hurrah 
for  China! 

Kate.     China ! 

Harry.  Yes,  Mrs.  Ashton  :  I  am  about  to  accompany 
Capt.  Bangs  to  China.  It  is  the  best,  the  only  course 
I  can  pursue.  He  is  my  friend  :  he  will  care  for  me  ; 
and,  with  his  help,  I  shall  prosper.  Bustle,  you  go  with 
me? 

Bustle.     To  be  sure  I  do ! 

Lilly.     O  Harry  !     You're  not  gouig  to  leave  us  ? 

Harry.  Lilly,  1  must  go.  Mrs.  Ashton,  let  me  say 
what  my  heart  prompts.  I  love  your  daughter  dearly, 
truly.  It  is  a  boy's  love,  which  a  man's  heart  .shall 
cement.  I  know  she  loves  me.  May  I  not  hope  some 
day  to  return,  and  claim  her  for  my  wife? 

Kate.  O  Harry!  my  heart  is  heavy  with  a  new 
trouble.  I  know  not  how  it  may  end  ;  but,  believe  me, 
I  love  you  with  a  mother's  love.  Go  your  way,  make 
for  yourself  a  name,  as  I  know  you  will,  and  remember, 
that,  rich  or  poor,  wheu  you  ask  it,  Lilly  Ashtou  shall 
be  your  wife.  , 

Harry.     Oh,  heaveu  bless  you  ! 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  35 

Hanson.     Kate  Ashton,  do  you  dare? 

Kate.  Dare,  Caleb  Hanson  !  I  know  you  now.  Bold, 
cunniug,  as  you  are,  you  have  not  conquered  yet.  A 
wife's  love  shall  battle  for  the  husband  ;  a  mother's  love 
for  the  child.  Scheme,  work,  tempt :  do  your  worst.  I 
feel  my  power,  and  Heaven's  justice  is  always  certain. 

TABLEAU. 

MARK  on  lounge,  asleep,  extreme  L.,  HARRY  kneels  at 
LILLY'S  feet,  R.,  kissing  her  hand.  KATE,  c.,  with 
finger  pointed  at  HAXSOX,  who  stands  L.,  holding  his 
hat  in  loth  hands,  and  looking  fiercely  at  KATE.  DICK 
extreme  L.  Slow  curtain. 


ACT     SECOND. 

SCENE.  —  Room  in  MARK  ASHTON'S  house.  Plain  table, 
C.  Plain  chairs,  R.  and  L.  Lounge,  R.  Furniture 
all  of  the  cheapest  kind.  MAUK  asleep  on  lounge. 
KATE  sits  on  a  low  stool  at  his  side,  watching  him. 

Kate.  Another  long  weary  night  has  gone  ;  another 
bright,  beautiful  morning  comes  to  make  glad  happy 
homes  and  hopeful  hearts,  but  brings  no  joy  to  oar 
blasted  life.  O  Mark,  Mark  !  would  I  had  stood  be- 
side your  grave,  mourning  the  loss  of  my  early  love, 
years  ago,  ere  I  had  lived  to  see  you  such  a  wreck.  Five 
years,  five  bitter  years,  have  passed  since  that  fatal  night 
when  Caleb  Hanson  marked  you  for  his  victim.  Heaven 
knows  I  warned  you,  that  I  strove  to  keep  you  from  his 


36  THE  LAST   LOAF. 

influence  ;  but  you  laughed  at  what  you  called  my  foolish 
fears  ;  still  cluug  to  him  who  led  you,  step  by  step,  aloug 
the  path  of  ruin.  He  spoke  truly :  first  neglect,  then 
poverty,  —  and  such  bitter  poverty.  No  roof  we  can  call 
our  own,  our  little  savings  squandered,  piece  by  piece 
our  furniture  sold  to  obtain  bread,  or,  worse  yet,  the 
poison  that  has  made  the  once  noble  father  and  husband 
a  miserable  drunkard.  O  Heaven  be  merciful  to  the 
wretched  victims  of  a  villain  ! 

Enter  LILLY,  L.,  in  hat  and  shawl  ;  KATE  rises. 

Lilly.  O  mother  !  such  a  cruel  disappointment ;  and 
I  had  planned  such  a  surprise  for  you. 

Kate.     A  surprise,  my  child? 

Lilly.  Yes,  mother.  Watching  you  growing  feeble 
and  careworn,  working  hard  to  keep  the  wolf  from  our 
door,  —  how  wretchedly  poor  we  are,  —  I  felt  it  was  time 
for  me  to  try  and  do  something  for  our  support.  So, 
three  weeks  ago,  I  called  upon  Mrs.  Clarence,  whose 
husband  bought  our  dear  old  house,  and  asked  her  to 
assist  me  by  allowing  me  to  give  her  daughter  instruction 
on  the  piano.  She  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  at  once 
accepted  my  proposal.  I  was  to  have  commenced  this 
morning,  she  to  pay  the  first  quarter  iu  advance.  Judge 
of  my  disappointment,  when  I  went  there,  to  find  that 
Mr.  Clarence  had  become  bankrupt,  that  the  house  had 
been  sold  yesterday  to  a  gentleman  recently  returned 
from  China.  It  was  a  cruel  blow  to  my  hopes,  for  I 
wanted  to  surprise  you  by  placing  in  your  hauds  my  first 
earuiugs.  „ 

Kate.  Lilly,  darling,  your  thoughtful  consideration  is 
a  source  of  pleasure  to  me. 


THE    LAST    LOAF.  37 

Lilly.  O  mother !  I  do  wish  I  could  do  something 
to  help  you. 

Kate.  Of  that  you  have  given  proof.  Who  did  you 
say  had  bought  our  old  home? 

Lilly.  A  gentleman  from  China.  I  didn't  hear  his 
name.  O  mother !  perhaps  he  can  give  us  some  tidings 
of  Harry. 

Kate.  I  fear  not,  Lilly.  Harry's  long  silence  —  not 
a  line  from  him  since  his  departure  —  is  ominous  of  evil. 
He  loved  you  so  dearly  that  nothing  but  death  could 
have  so  sealed  his  lips. 

Lilly.  Oh,  don't  say  that,  mother  !  The  thought  of 
his  return  is  the  only  bright  spot  in  the  future  to  me. 

Kate.  We  will  hope  for  the  best,  my  child.  What  is 
hidden  in  the  sealed  future,  time  alone  can  disclose.  Its 
mysteries  may  be  all  the  brighter  when  we  reach  them, 
because  now  enveloped  in  darkness,  as  the  sun  never 
seems  to  shine  so  gloriously  as  when  bursting  through 
the  clouds  that  have  obscured  it. 

Enter  PATTY,  K. 

Patty.  Mrs.  Ashton,  what  am  I  to  do  for  breakfast? 
There's  neither  bread  nor  butter,  coffee  nor  tea,  sugar  nor 
molasses  ;  the  cat  has  drunk  up  all  the  milk,  and  the 
mice  absconded  with  the  last  remnants  of  cheese.  The 
grocer  will  not  trust  me,  and  the  butcher  declares  we 
shall  have  nothing  until  his  bill  is  paid. 

Kate.     Indeed,  Patty,  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

Patty.  We  must  have  something  to  eat.  Gracious, 
goodness  !  there'll  be  nothing  but  skeletons  left  here,  if 
we  don't  look  out. 


38  THE    LAST    LOAF. 

Kate.  Putty,  we  have  reached  the  end  of  our  means. 
'Tis  useless  for  you  to  stay  here  any  longer :  you  must 
know  we  cannot  pay  you. 

Patty.     Fiddlesticks  !     What  do  I  care  for  pay? 

Kate.  You  see  we  have  nothing,  not  even  food.  It's 
your  duty  to  look  out  for  yourself. 

Patty.  What  do  I  care  for  food  ?  I  can  go  without 
just  as  long  as  you  can.  It's  my  duty  to  care  for  those 
who  have  cared  for  me,  who  nursed  me  when  I  was 
sick,  who  gave  me  a  good  home,  and  made  my  life 
pleasant  and  happy,  and  forgot  all  about  my  being  a 
hired  girl.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  woods  of  Maine. 
I'm  nothing  but  a  plain  Yankee  girl,  but  I  know  what's 
right.  Misfortune  came  upon  you  when  I  was  sharing 
your  prosperity,  and  I'm  not  going  to  desert  you  now. 
If  there's  nothing  in  the  house  to  eat,  it's  my  duty  to  find 
something,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it.  (Going,  L.) 

Kate.  Stop,  stop,  Patty !  My  purse  is  not  quite 
empty.  Here's  a  dime  ;  that  will  at  least  buy  a  loaf  of 
bread. 

Patty.  H'm  !  A  dry  breakfast  that'll  make  ;  but  it's 
better  than  none.  So  witli  the  last  dime  I'll  get  a  loaf 
of  bread.  Gracious  !  I  hope  it  won't  be  the  last  loaf. 

(Exit.  L.) 

Kate.  (Aside.)  The  last  loaf !  Has  it  come  to  that  ? 
Caleb  Hanson  said  we  should  be  brought  to  it ;  and 
then —  Ah!  let  him  come,  let  him  come,  to  find  his 
wicked  arts  have  failed  to  loose  from  their  embrace  a 
mother's  guarding  arms. 

Lilly.      O    mother,    mother !     what    will    become    of 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  39 

Kate  (folding  LILLY  in  her  arms').  Fear  not,  my 
child.  Heaven  guards  us  ever.  Trust  on. 

"  The  darkest  day, 
Live  till  to-morrow,  •will  have  passed  away." 

(Exit,  R.) 

Mark  (muttering).  Fill  up  !  Fill  up  !  Bumpers,  boys, 
bumpers  !  (Moves,  and  opens  his  eyes.)  Hallo  !  Where 
am  I?  Home!  I  thought  I  was  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  at  Fowler's.  Home  !  Cold  as  a  barn.  (Sits  up  and 
looks  round.)  But  who  made  it,  Mark  Ashton?  Who 
transposed  a  beautiful  home  to  this  deu?  Who  dragged 
a  trusting  wife  down  —  down  —  to  such  a  miserable  hole  ? 
Who  blasted  a  daughter's  happiness?  You,  Mark  Ash- 
ton  !  You,  curse  you  !  Oh  !  is  there  no  oblivion?  Can 
I  never  drown  remorse?  Drink  deep  as  I  will,  there 
always  comes  this  terrible  awakening,  with  Kate's  care- 
worn face,  and  Lilly's  downcast  eyes,  to  tell  me  of  my 
shame.  O  Death  !  will  you  never  come  to  slay  this 
Gorgon  appetite,  to  hide  this  mockery  of  God's  image 
asvay  from  the  sight  of  man  forever?  (Jumps  up.)  Oh, 
I  shall  go  mad  !  mad !  mad  !  I  cannot  bear  to  look 
upon  them ;  to  read  in  their  eyes  my  disgrace  ;  to  hear 
their  sweet  voices,  that  never  reproach,  speak  loving 
words  that  scorch  my  wicked  soul.  I  will  away,  ere 
they  return.  0  wife,  daughter!  wronged,  betrayed, 
neglected  I  pray,  if  you  can,  for  the  unhappy  wretch  who 
blasts  and  withers  all  your  fondest  hopes.  Heaven  knows 
he  needs  it,  when  his  unhallowed  thirst  seeks  to  drown 
conscience  with  its  greedy  cry  for  drink,  —  drink,  — 
drink  !  (Hushes  out,  L.) 


40  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Enter  PATTY,  L.,  with  a  loaf  of  bread. 

Patty.  What  sends  Mr.  Ashton  tearing  off  in  that 
style,  at  this  early  hour?  After  his  morning  dram,  I 
s'pose.  Well,  let  him  go  :  a  small  loaf  won't  go  a  great 
ways  in  a  large  family,  and  one  mouth  the  less  to  feed 
is  a  great  saving.  (Puts  loaf  on  the  table.')  Heigho  ! 
what's  to  become  of  us?  Nothing  to  do,  and  no  friends 
to  look  to  for  help.  What  a  miserable  little  loaf  of  bread. 
It's  not  at  all  like  Dick  Bustle's.  Oh,  dear  !  I  wonder 
what's  become  of  him.  I  s'pose  he's  made  his  fortune 
in  China,  and  settled  down  with  some  little  pigeon-toed 
China  girl  to  keep  house  for  him.  Well,  there's  as  good 
fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  was  caught ;  but  they  don't  nibble 
here,  that's  certain.  (Knock  at  door,  L.)  Who's  that? 
Come  in. 

Enter  TOM  CUUBBS,  L. 

Mercy  sakes  !     It's  Tom  Chubbs  ! 

Tom.     P-p-p-atty  J-j-j-oues,  as  I'm  a  s-s-s-inner  ! 

Patty.     Where  in  the  world  did  you  come  from? 

Tom.  F-f-f-rom  the  c-c-c-orner.  I've  j-j-j-est  o-o- 
o-pened  a  p-p-p-ro vision  s-s-s-tore. 

Patty.     Indeed  !  and  want  our  custom,  I  s'pose. 

Tom.  Well,  I  d-d-d-o'uo'  b-b-b-out  that.  Mr.  A-a-a-sh- 
ton's  p-p-p-oor  p-p-p-ay,  ain't  he? 

Patty.  What's  that  to  you  ?  He  don't  owe  you  any 
thing,  does  he? 

Tom.  P-p-p-atty  J-j-j-ones,  don't  be  so  p-p-p-eppery. 
He's  p-p-p-oor,  ain't  he  ? 

Patty.  Poor !  O  Tom !  the  family  are  suffering. 
They  want  help. 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  41 

Tom.  D-d-d-o  they?  Well,  P-p-p-atty  J-j-j-oaes,  I'm 
j-j-j-ust  the  m-m-m-an  to  h-h-h-elp,  and  I'll  d-d-d-o  it,. 

Patty.  You  will  !  Oh,  thank  you  !  You  are  indeed  a 
friend. 

Tom.  Y-y-y-es,  they  shall  have  every  th-th-th-ing  they 
want. 

Patty.  O  you  dear  Tom  Chubbs  !  If  you're  not  care- 
ful, I  shall  hug  you. 

Tom.  D-d-d-o,  P-p-p-atty.  I'll  be  a  w-w-w-illing 
v-v-v-ictim.  L-1-l-isten  to  me.  I'm  in  1-1-1-ove. 

Patty.     What,  again? 

Tom.  N-n-n-o :  it's  the  same  o-o-o-ld  1-1-1-ove,  —  as 
f-f-f-resh  as  n-n-n-ew  1-1-1-aid  eggs,  as  t-t-t-encler  as 
sp-sp-sp-ring  ch-ch-cli-ickeus,  and  as  st-r-r-ong  as — as — 
as — 

Patty.  (Aside.)  Old  cheese,  and  green  as  your  own 
cabbages.  (Aloud.)  And,  pray,  who  is  the  object  of 
this  tender  passion  ? 

Tom.  C-c-c-an  you  ask  me?  It's  you,  P-p-p-atty 
J-j-j-ones,  d-d-d-ivine  ch-eh-ch-armer. 

Patty.  Is  it  possible?  Why,  I  thought  I  put  an  ex- 
tinguisher on  your  ardent  flame  five  years  ago. 

Tom.  You  did  sm-sm-sm-other  it  a  bit ;  b-b-b-ut  it's 
b-b-b-urst  out  again.  B-b-b-e  my  w-w-w-ife,  P-p-p-atty 
J-j-j-ones.  I've  got  a  n-n-n-ice  house,  a  n-n-n-ice  1-1- 
1-ittle  b-b-b-usiness,  and  a  n-n-n-ice  1-1-1-ittle  s-s-s-um  in 
the  b-b-b-ank,  and  now  I  want  a  n-n-n-ice  1-1-1-ittle  w-w- 
w-ife. 

Patty.  Well,  I'll  think  about  it,  Tom.  In  the  mean 
time,  as  we've  got  nothing  for  breakfast,  a  good  juicy 
steak  would  be  very  acceptable. 


42  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Tom.  P-p-p-atty  J-j-j-ones,  y-y-y-ou  m-m-m-ust  s-s- 
s-ay  y-y-y-es  or  n-n-n-o  b-b-b-efore  I  do  any  thing  f-f-f-or 
the  f-f-f-amily. 

Patty.     What? 

Tom.  Only  s-s-s-ay  you'll  have  m-m-m-e,  and  I'll 
p-p-p-rovide  f-f-f-or  the  f-f-f-amily  — 

Patty.     You  will? 

Torn.  Yes  :  they  shall  have  every  th-th-th-ing  —  at  the 
1-1-1-owest  w-\v-w-holes-s-s-ale  p-p-p-rice,  for  c-c-c-ash. 

Patty.     Tom  Chubbs ! 

Tom.  Y-y-y-es :  I'll  b-b-b-e  g-g-g-enerous,  t-t-t-oo. 
Take  m-m-m-e,  and  I'll  g-g-g-ive  you  a  h-h-h-og. 

Patty.  I've  no  doubt  you  will,  if  I  take  you.  Is  this 
your  boasted  help  ? 

Tom.  It's  h-h-h-ard  t-t-t-imes,  P-p-p-atty  ;  m-m-m-ust 
1-1-1-ook  out  f-f-f-or  m-m-m-yself. 

Patty.  Then  look  out  for  yourself  now,  or  you'll  find 
harder  times.  There's  the  door ;  if  you're  not  out  of  it 
in  a  second,  I'll  smash  your  soft  pate  with  that  loaf  of 
bread.  (Takes  loaf  from  table.) 

Tom.     B-b-b-ut,  P-p-p-atty  — 

Palty.  Clear  out,  you  mean,  miserable  skinflint. 
Clear,  I  say!  (Throws  loaf  at  him  as  he  runs  off,  L.) 
Was  there  ever  such  a  —  (ToM  enters,  L.,  with  the 
loaf.} 

Tom.  You've  d-d-d-ropped  s-s-s-omething,  P-p-p-atty. 
(PATTY  rushes  at  him,  he  drops  loaf  and  exits,  L.) 

Patty.  You  jest  show  yourself  here  again,  Tom 
Chubbs,  —  that's  all.  What  hateful  things  men  are,  any 
way.  I'd  just  like  to  have  one  of  them  try  to  make  love 
to  me  again,  —  that's  all.  I  never  want  to  see  a  man 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  43 

again  as  long  as  I  live,  or  hear  the  sound  of  his 
voice. 

Dick.  (Outside,  L.)  Now,  theu,  what  is  it?  White 
or  brown?  Either,  both,  or  neither?  (Enters,  L.,  with 
a  basket  on  his  arm.)  Brick,  square,  family,  twist,  rolls, 
or  muffins  ? 

Patty.  Why,  it's  Dick  Bustle !  O  you  dear  old 
Dick !  (Ituns  into  his  arms,  and  clasjjs  him  about  the 
neck.) 

Dick.     It  is  that  distinguished  individual,  sure  enough. 

Patty.  Where  did  you  come  from?  Where  have 
you  been?  Where's  Harry  Hanson? 

Dick.  To  your  first  interrogatory,  Patty,  I  reply, — 
China.  To  your  second,  my  answer  is, — China.  To 
your  third,  —  China.  So  you  see  for  your  lohere  you've 
a  full  set  of  China. 

Patty.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you.  But  why  haven't  you 
Avrittcn  ? 

Dick.     Oh  !  I  left  all  that  to  Harry. 

Patty.  But  we  haven't  heard  a  word  from  either  of 
you  since  you  left. 

Dick.  Is  that  so?  Well,  it's  evident  that  my  late 
respected  employer  has  been  sticking  his  fingers  into 
other  people's  dough. 

Patty.     What  do  you  mean,  Dick? 

Dick.  No  matter  now  :  tell  me,  how  are  all  the  folks? 
It  strikes  me  that  this  is  rather  a  cheap  place  for  a  man 
of  so  fine  a  taste  as  Mark  Ashtou. 

Patty.  Why,  Dick,  haven't  you  heard?  Mr.  Ashton 
is  a  confirmed  sot.  He  has  squandered  all  his  property, 
and  the  family  are  now  — 


'44  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Dick.  As  I  used  to  say,  buttered  side  down.  Well, 
I'm  sorry,  for  Mark  was  a  good  fellow. 

Patty.  You'd  scarce  believe  it,  Dick ;  but,  at  this 
moment,  every  bit  of  food  we  have  in  the  house  is  that 
single  loaf  of  bread. 

Dick.  Well,  that's  a  dreadful  mean-looking  loaf.  It 
looks  scared,  don't  it?  Quite  a  curiosity.  Give  that  to 
me,  Patty :  or  rather  let  me  exchange  it  for  one  of 
mine.  I  should  like  to  preserve  that.  (Takes  loaf  from 
his  basket.')  Now,  there's  an  article  worth  looking  at. 
You'll  find  there's  no  short  weight  about  it  when  it's  cut. 
(Exchanges  loaves.)  So  you  say  the  family  are  real 
poor? 

Patty.     Indeed,  indeed  they  are  ! 

Dick.     Well,  how  about  you,  Patty?     Married  yet? 

Patty.     No,  indeed. 

Dick.  Well,  I  suppose  not,  from  the  garroting  you 
gave  me  when  I  came  in.  Engaged  ? 

Patty.     Indeed,  I'm  not. 

Dick.  You'll  excuse  my  speaking  of  it ;  but  I  met 
Tom  Cliubbs  out  here,  flying  away,  and  I  didn't  know 
but  what  it  was  '*  upon  the  wings  of  love "  that  are 
spoken  of  occasionally. 

Patty.  No,  indeed !  He's  opened  a  provision  store 
round  the  corner,  and  dropped  in  to  acquaint  us  with  the 
fact. 

Dick.  Well,  then,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  giving 
our  old  friend  Tom  an  order  for  as  much  of  his  stock  as 
I  can  conveniently  bring  here  in  that  basket. 

Patty.  O  Dick  !  That  is  so  like  you,  —  ever  thought- 
ful of  those  in  distress. 


THE    LAST    LOAF.  45 

Dick.  Patty,  I've  been  knocked  about  the  world  con- 
siderable since  I  left  you,  five  years  ago.  I  haven't 
made  much  headway  in  becoming  a  scholar  ;  but  I've 
found  that  a  warm  heart  and  a  willing  hand  are  worth 
all  the  learning  in  creation,  and  that  the  world  has  more 
need  of  philanthropists  than  philosophers.  No  friends 
of  mine  shall  want  Avhile  I  have  a  penny  in  my  pocket. 
I'm  going  to  set  up  a  provisional  government  here.  You 
shall  be  chief  cook,  and  I'll  be  chief  butler. 

Pally.     O  Dick  !   I'm  proud  of  you. 

Dick.  That's  comforting,  Patty  ;  for  I've  come  back 
brim-full  of  love  for  you,  and  I  want  you  to  marry  me. 

Patty.     O  Dick  !  you're  so  abrupt. 

Dick.  Well,  I  always  was ;  but  this  won't  do.  I 
must  go  and  fill  up  the  basket. 

Patty.     Let  me  go  with  you? 

Dick.     Delighted  to  have  your  company. 

Patty.  Let  me  run  and  tell  Mrs.  Ashton  and  Lilly 
that  you  have  come :  they'll  be  so  glad  to  see  you,  and 
hear  something  from  Harry.  Why,  Dick,  you  haven't 
told  me  a  word  about  him. 

Dick.  And  I  don't  mean  to,  just  now.  Now,  you 
come  with  me.  Don't  say  any  thing  to  Mrs.  Ashtou  at 
present.  I  have  my  reasons. 

Patty.  If  you  don't  tell  me  something  about  him,  we 
shall  quarrel. 

Dick.  No,  Patty,  we  mustn't  quarrel ;  that  is,  —  until 
after  we  are  married. 

Patty.  And  do  you  flatter  yourself  I'm  going  to  marry 
you? 

Dick.     Well,  we  can't  tell   what    may  happen.     Do 


46  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

you  remember  what  you  said  when  I  went  away?  That 
you  wouldn't  rnarry  me  if  there  wasn't  another  mau  in 
the  world. 

Patty.  Did  I?  But,  Dick,  that  was  five  years  ago; 
and,  besides,  I've  changed  my  mind. 

Dick.  O  Patty  Jones,  Patty  Jones  !  Come  to  my 
arms  and  fill  my  soul  —  No  :  business  before  pleasure, 
—  let's  go  and  fill  the  basket.  (Exit,  L.) 

Enter  MA-RK  ASIITON,  L. 

Mark.  Not  a  drop,  —  not  a  drop  !  Morgan  has  shut 
down  !  No  more  credit,  —  no  money,  no  liquor.  Have 
I  fallen  so  low  that  I  am  refused  a  drop  of  liquor  to 
quench  the  thirst  that  is  strangling  me?  I  must  have 
it!  My  pockets  are  empty,  —  emptied  into  Morgan's 
till.  There's  nothing  here  worth  pawning.  I  must 
have  it,  —  at  least  one  glass.  Perhaps  Kate  has  a  shawl, 
or  Lilly  a  bonnet.  O  wretch,  wretch  !  Would  you  rob 
your  own  wife  and  daughter  of  their  poor  clothing?  I 
must  have  something.  What's  this?  bread,  —  bread, — 
to  mock  my  thirst.  I'll  throw  it  into  the  street.  No, 
no,  no !  there's  money  in  it.  Morgan  will  give  me  a 
glass  for  that.  He  can't  refuse,  for  he  robs  the  poor  of 
their  bread  every  day.  Lucky  thought.  I'll  try  it. 
(  Takes  loaf,  and  goes  towards  door,  L.)  Who's  this  ?  Caleb 
Hanson  !  I  can't  meet  him  with  this  under  my  arm. 
He's  coming  this  way.  I'll  wait  till  he  is  gouc.  (Throws 
himself  upon  lounge.)  Oh,  this  maddening  thirst! 
Enter  KATE,  followed  by  LILLY,  R. 

Kate.  I  thought  I  heard  your  lather  moving;  but  he 
still  sleeps. 


THE   LAST  LOAF.  47 

Lilly.     O  mother  !  when  and  how  will  this  end? 

Kate.  With  his  life,  my  child.  See  what  a  wreck 
your  once  noble  father  has  become.  Wretched  as  we 
are,  his  life  is  a  thousand  times  more  miserable.  Oh,  if 
he  could  be  made  to  realize  his  condition  !  If  one  spark 
of  his  once  noble  manhood  could  be  kindled,  there  would 
be  hope  for  him. 

Lilly.  Mother,  he  must  see  how  you  are  suffering  : 
he  must  know  that  we  are  without  means  to  live.  'Tis 
too  hard  for  you,  brought  up  with  every  comfort  about 
you,  to  be  reduced  to  this  poverty,  with  but  a  single  loaf 
of  bread  in  the  house,  and  no  means  to  get  another. 

Kate.  We  will  eat  that  contentedly,  and  not  repine  at 
the  ways  of  Providence.  He  was  the  best  of  fathers,  the 
best  of  husbands,  in  prosperity  ;  and  even  in  our  wretch- 
edness not  one  unkind  word  has  passed  his  lips. 

Lilly  (kissing  MARK  on  the  forehead).  Dear,  dear 
father  :  if  you  only  knew  how  dearly  we  love  you  ! 

Kate  (sits  at  n.  of  table).  Heaven  send  us  some  help 
in  our  sore  distress. 

Mark  (mutters  as  if  in  sleep).  And  I  would  have 
robbed  them,  of  their  last  morsel.  O  wretch,  accursed 
wretch  ! 

Lilly  (putting  her  arm  about  KATE'S  nedc).  Poor 
mother  !  At  last  you  sink  beneath  the  burden.  (Knock, 
L.)  Come  in. 

Enter  CALEB  HANSON,  L. 

Caleb.  Ah !  Good-morning,  ladies.  I  trust  I  see 
you  well,  Mrs.  Ashtou,  —  and  Lilly,  too  ;  how  charming 
you  are  looking  1 


48  THE   LAST  LOAF. 

Kate.     {Starts  up.)     Caleb  Hanson,  leave  my  house. 

Caleb.  Your  house  !  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  was  not 
aware  that  Mark  Ashton  or  his  wife  were  owners  of  real 
estate.  This  house  is  mine  :  I  bought  it  yesterday. 

Kate.     Still  hunting  your  victims. 

Caleb.  No :  looking  after  my  friends,  that's  all.  I 
bought  the  house  yesterday,  and  with  it  a  bill  for  a 
month's  rent  now  due.  I  called  in  to  collect  it. 

Kate.     We  have  not  a  penny  we  can  call  our  own. 

Caleb.     I  am  glad  of  that. 

Kate.     I  suppose  you  are. 

Caleb.  Just  sitting  down  to  breakfast  too  ?  Perhaps 
to  your  last  loaf? 

Kate.     It  is  our  last  loaf.     You  are  glad  of  that  too. 

Caleb.  I  am  ;  for  now  I  am  nearing  the  consummation 
of  my  wishes.  Now  you  will  let  me  be  your  frieud. 

Kate.     Friend !     You  ? 

Caleb.  Yes,  friend.  You  have  seen  how  strong  a  foe 
I  can  be.  I  was  a  true  prophet  five  years  ago,  —  was  I 
not  ?  It's  all  turned  out  just  as  I  said.  I  told  you  my 
influence  could  make  Mark  a  drunkard,  —  could  beggar 
you,  —  could  bring  you  to  your  last  crust. 

Kale.  You  have  performed  all  you  promised.  What 
next? 

Caleb.  "Pis  time  you  had  a  change.  All  this  was 
brought  about  because  you  refused  to  give  me  your 
daughter.  Give  her  to  me  now,  and  I  will  rebuild  all  I 
have  destroyed.  To-morrow  you  shall  go  to  your  old 
home ;  comforts  shall  spring  up  about  you  ;  every  wish 
shall  be  gratified  ;  your  husband  shall  be  reclaimed,  and 
all  made  bright  and  happy. 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  49 

Kate.     And  you  could  do  all  this? 

Caleb.     Do  you  doubt  it  ? 

Kate.  No  !  I  know  the  power  of  an  inflexible  will. 
I  know  the  power  of  money  at  a  strong  man's  command  ; 
but  I  tell  you,  Caleb  Hanson,  if  you  could  do  all  this,  — 
if  you  could  give  me  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart,  —  my 
husband  restored  to  manhood  again,  —  the  price  to  be 
my  daughter's  hand,  my  answer  would  still  be,  Never,  — 
never ! 

Caleb.  Still  stubborn?  I  must  go  farther,  then, — 
drive  you  into  the  street,  homeless  and  houseless. 

Lilly.     O  mother,  mother  ! 

Kate.  Still,  with  my  protecting  arms  about  my  child, 
I  would  defy  you. 

Caleb.  Farther  yet :  Mark  Ashton  is  now  a  drivelling 
drunkard.  I'll  drive  him  into  crime.  He  shall  be  a 
hunted  felon. 

Kate.     O  Heaven,  be  merciful ! 

Caleb.     I  have  the  power. 

Mark  (springs  from  sofa,  takes  centre  of  stage,  with 
finger  pointed  at  Caleb).  Caleb  Hanson,  you  lie  ! 


Kate. 
Lilly. 
Caleb. 


Mark! 

(Together.)    Father! 
Ashton ! 


Mark.  Your  power  is  gone,  never  to  return.  I  know 
you  now,  smooth-tongued  hypocrite. 

Caleb.     Mark,  you're  drunk. 

Mark.  False  again,  Caleb.  I  haven't  been  so  sober 
for  five  years.  To-day  I  cannot  get  a  drop. 

Caleb.  Oh,  I  see !  your  nerves  are  unstrung,  Mark. 
(Takes  out  money.}  Here,  —  here's  money.  Go  get 

4 


50  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

something.  Y"ou  really  need  it.  Get  something, 
quick. 

Mark.  Too  late,  Caleb.  Put  up  your  money.  Tempt- 
er, your  power  is  goue.  A  few  moments  ago  I  was 
creeping  out  of  this  house  with  a  loaf  of  bread  under  my 
arm,  going  to  sell  it  for  a  glass  of  liquor,  —  the  last  loaf 
my  poor  wife  and  child  had  to  keep  them  from  starving. 
Stealing  the  bread  from  their  mouths  to  feed  my  unholy 
appetite.  The  last  loaf,  Caleb,  —  don't  it  make  you 
shudder?  I  saw  you  coming  ;  and,  ashamed  to  meet  my 
friend,  —  my  friend,  Caleb,  —  I  slunk  back,  back  here. 
I  heard  my  wife's  sweet  voice  ;  I  felt  my  daughter's 
kiss ;  I  heard  a  tale  of  villany  from  your  lips.  I 
wouldn't  believe  my  own  wife,  when  she  told  me  ;  but 
you,  my  friend,  I  must  believe. 

Caleb.     Well,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 

Mark.     Protect  my  child. 

Caltb.  Ah,  indeed!  fit  protector  you,  —  a  broken- 
down  drunkard. 

Mark.  Caleb  Hanson,  I  believe  there  is  a  time  in 
every  weak  man's  life,  when  the  hand  of  Providence  is 
put  forth,  when  a  warning  voice  comes,  "  Thus  far  shall 
thou  go,  and  no  farther."  I  believe  that  time  has  come 
to  me,  —  the  time  to  break  my  chains,  and  free  myself. 
Heaven  aid  me  !  I  will  heed  the  warning.  You,  you,  who 
have  made  me  what  I  am,  hear  the  vow,  —  Never,  never 
shall  the  accursed  poison  touch  my  lips  again  ! 

Kate.     O  Mark,  Mark  !  my  own  Mark  again. 

Lilly.     Father,  dear,  dear  father  ! 

Mark  {folding  them  in  his  arms).  Now,  Caleb  Han- 
son, come  and  take  my  daughter. 


THE   LAST  LOAF.  51 

Caleb.  You  "will  take  your  daughter  and  your  wife 
out  of  my  house  at  once.  I'll  drive  you  from  town  as  a 
vagabond  and  a  drunkard. 

Mark.  Have  a  care,  Hanson,  —  have  a  care.  It's  as 
much  as  I  can  do  to  keep  my  fingers  from  your  throat*. 
We'll  leave  your  house,  —  never  fear;  but,  before  I  go, 
you,  who  so  delight  in  noble  acts,  witness  our  morning 
meal.  (Takes  loaf  from  table.)  'Tis  the  last  remnant 
of  my  life  of  shame,  —  our  last  loaf,  of  which  I  would  have 
robbed  these  dear  ones.  But  now  I  can  share  it  with 
them  ;  and,  with  the  vow  of  repentance  upon  my  lips, 
Heaven  will  bless  it.  (Breaks  the  loaf,  and  pieces  of 
gold  fall  upon  floor.)*  What  magic's  here?  (Snatching 
up  pieces,  and  letting  them  fall  through  his  fingers.)  Gold, 
—  gold,  —  gold  ! 

Caleb.  Confusion  !  Who  has  dared  to  interfere  with 
my  plans? 

Enter  DICK  BUSTLE,  with  basket,  L.,  followed  by  PATTY. 

Dick.     Dick  Bustle,  I  expect :  it's  just  like  him. 

Mark.     What,  Dick!   Dick  Bustle?     (Shakes  hands.) 

Kate.     Old  friend,  welcome  home  !      (Shakes  hands.) 

Lilly.     O  Dick,  Dick,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you ! 

Caleb.     Confound  the  blunderhead  ! 

Dick  (placing  basket  on  table).  Thank  you.  Thank 
you  all. 

Mark.     Explain  this  mystery,  Dick. 

Dick.  Mystery  !  Why,  that's  a  good  loaf  of  bread, 
ain't  it? 

*  To  prepare  the  loaf,  cut  in  two,  perpendicularly,  a  round  loaf;  remove 
enough  of  the  inside  to  hold  the  "gold";  then  fasten  the  two  halves,  by 
paesing  around  it  horizontally  an  clastic  baud. 


52  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Mark.     Yes  ;  but  the  contents. 

Dick.    Oil !   the  stuffiu'  ?    Well,  it's  a  pretty  long  story  ; 
and,  as  Mr.  Hanson  seems  to  be  in  a  hurry,  perhaps  I'd 
better  — 
•    Patty.     No,  no,  Dick  :  we're  dying  to  hear  it. 

Dick.  Well,  then,  five  years  ago  two  individuals  went 
off  to  China. 

Lilly.     Yes  !     You  and  my  Harry. 

Dick.  Exactly,  Lilly :  your  Harry.  Mr.  Hanson,  I 
beg  you  to  take  notice  that  the  young  lady  says  her 
Harry. 

Paltij.     Do  go  on,  Dick. 

Dick.  '  Well,  this  Harry  was  a  driver,  I  tell  you.  No 
sooner  had  we  landed,  than  he  was  snapped  up  by  an 
English  house,  and  given  an  important  position.  Wasn't 
he  smart?  Why,  there  wasn't  his  equal  there,  —  such  a 
hand  at  bargains,  and  such  luck,  —  every  thing  he  took 
hold  of  turned  to  gold  ;  but  the  first  money  he  made  was 
enclosed  in  a  neat  envelope,,  and  sent  home,  directed  to 
Mrs.  Kate  Ashton. 

Kate.     I  have  never  received  it. 

Dick.  You  haven't !  I  beg  you  to  take  notice,  Mr. 
Hanson,  that  she  says  she  never  received  it. 

Hanson.     What's  this  to  do  with  me? 

Dick.  You'll  find  out,  my  late  respected  employer. 
This  envelope  was  followed  by  many  more. 

Kate.     Which  were  never  received. 

Dick.  I  suppose  not.  -You  see  a  friend  of  this  Harry 
was  one  day  forced  to  take  refuge  under  a  lounge,  where 
he  overheard  a  conversation  between  certain  parties 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  53 

concerning  certain  other  parties ;  and  he  and  Harry 
made  up  their  minds  the  money  would  be  welcome. 

Patty.     That  was  you  who  hid  under  the  lounge,  Dick. 

Dick.  Exactly ;  but,  as  you  know,  the  money  never 
came  to  hand.  I  beg  you  to  take  notice,  Mr.  Hanson  — 

Patty.     0  Dick,  do  go  on  ! 

Dick.  I  have  little  more  to  say.  A  year  ago,  Harry 
was  taken  into  the  English  house  as  a  partner.  Hearing 
nothing  from  his  dispatches,  he  commanded  me,  his  in- 
separable companion,  to  look  them  up.  I  am  here  for 
that  purpose.  The  loaf  was  a  little  invention  of  mine, 
to  block  my  late  respected  employer's  game.  I  made 
the  loaf,  but  another  party  supplied  the  stuffiu'. 

Lilly.     O  Dick,  Dick  !  and  that  other  party  — 

Enter  HARRY  HANSON,  L. 

Harry.  Will  answer  for  himself.  Lilly,  Lilly,  my 
darling ! 

Lilly.  O  Harry  !  Dear,  dear  Harry  !  (Rushes  into 
his  arms.) 

Kate.     My  dear,  dear  boy,  welcome  home  ! 

Mark.     Harry,  my  boy,  God  bless  you  ! 

Harry.  Thanks  for  your  kind  greeting.  This  is 
indeed  a  happy  moment. 

Dick.     Harry,  there's  your  father. 

Harry  (turning  to  HANSON).  Father!  that  man  is 
not  my  father.  His  hands  are  steeped  in  crime.  He 
has  dragged  his  dearest  friend  to  ruin.  He  has  forfeited 
all  right  to  the  child  he  drove  from  his  doors.  Repent- 
ance alone  can  wash  the  stains  from  that  man's  soul. 


54  THE   LAST   LOAF. 

Hanson  (to  himself,  with  feeling}.  The  boy  speaks 
plain.  I  have  done -all  this.  I  have  planned  and  plotted 
ruin.  I  have  stepped  between  him  and  his  love.  I 
have  committed  felony  in  intercepting  his  letters.  I 
could  have  borne  it  all,  —  all  its  penalties,  —  but  to  see 
my  own  son  turn  coldly  from  his  father  —  I  thought  I 
hated  him  ;  but  now  I  would  give  all  my  wealth  to  feel 
the  clapp  of  his  hand,  to  look  into  his  faee,  and  read  there 
some  token  of  love.  All,  well,  —  as  we  sow,  so  must  we 
reap.  Foiled  everywhere,  what  is  there  left  for  me? 
(Tarns  and  slowly  goes  out,  L.  ;  th-e  others  stand  watching 
him  as  he  goes.) 

Harry.     My  own  father !     Oh,  this  is  hard  to  bear  ! 

Kate.  Cheer  up,  my  boy.  Though  he  who  should  be 
your  best  friend  has  deserted  you,  there  are  warm  hearts 
here. 

Harry.  I  know  it,  Mrs.  Ashton.  You  told  me  you 
would  be  my  mother,  —  that  Lilly  should  be  my  wife. 

Kate.     No,  Harry,  —  that  her  choice  should  be  mine. 

Harry.  Ah !  then  it  is  useless  for  me  to  ask  any 
more  questions,  for  I  read  her  answer  in  her  eyes.  Do 
I  not,  Lilly? 

Lilly.  O  Harry !  you  have  the  most  truthful  eyes  I 
ever  looked  into. 

Harry.  Dick,  old  friend,  you  found  my  remittances 
had  been  appropriated  by  another  party. 

Dick.  Yes,  Harry ;  by  my  late  respected  employer. 
He  must  be  made  to  fork  over. 

Harry.  In  good  time,  Dick.  But  now  I  have  other' 
matters  to  occupy  my  attention. 


THE   LAST   LOAF.  55 

Dick.  And  so  have  I.  Patty  Jones  is  very  anxious 
to  change  her  name. 

Harry.  And  you  are  anxious  to  have  her.  Well, 
Patty,  you  can't  do  better. 

Patty.  Thank  you,  Master  Harry.  I'm  exactly  of 
your  opinion,  —  ain't  I,  Dick? 

Dick.     If  you're  not,  then  I'm  buttered  side  down. 

Mark.  Harry,  there  is  no  need  of  my  telling  you  our 
past  experience.  You  read  it  in  my  altered  looks,  —  in 
the  wreck  of  a  once  proud  man. 

Harry.  Mr.  Ashton,  say  uo  more.  I  know  every 
thing.  "  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead."  Your  old 
home  is  waiting  for  you.  Every  thing  is  just  as  it  was 
when  you  left  it. 

Lilly.     Our  old  home  !     Then  you  are  — 

Dick.     The  gentleman  from  China,  Lilly. 

Hark.  Our  old  home  again?  I  feel  like  a  new  man, 
wife.  Heaven  has  dealt  kindly  with  me,  to  give  me 
these  kind  friends  after  my  wasted  life. 

Kate.  Ah,  Mark,  you  have  suffered  deeply.  Let  us 
hope  there  are  better  times  in  store  for  us. 

Hark.  I  trust  there  are,  Kate.  My  reformation  can- 
xiot  be  accomplished  in  an  hour.  I  must  suffer  from 
that  accursed  appetite,  —  must  struggle  to  overcome  it : 
be  ever  near  me,  lest  I  should  fall. 

Kate.  Fear  not,  Mark  :  we  will  surround  you  in  our 
dear  old  home  with  such  loving  hearts  that  temptation 
shall  have  no  power  to  harm  you. 

Hark.  Ay,  gather  about  me  close,  —  wife,  daughter, 
son.  In  the  hours  of  darkness,  when  temptation  assails 


56  THE   LAST   LOAP. 

me,  let  me  lean  upon  your  true  hearts  to  gather  courage  ; 
for  there  are  no  trustier  guards  than  loving  hearts,  —  no 
stronger  citadel  than  "  Home,  sweet  Home." 

TABLEAU. 

MARK,  C.,  with  his  left  arm  around  KATE'S  waist,  his  right 
hand  over  HARRY  and  LILLY,  who  kneel,  R.  DICK  and 
PATTY,  arm  in  arm,  L.  Music,  "Home,  sweet  Home," 
as  the  curtain  slowly  falls. 


TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 


A  DUOLOGUE  FOR  TWO  GENTLEMEN. 


SOCK,  a  manager. 

BUSKIN,  an  eccentric  comedian  in  search  of  an  engagement. 


SCENE.  —  Waiting-room  in  a  depot.  Placards  on  wall : 
Time-table;  "Look  out  for  Pickpockets  ;"  "No  Smoking 
Allowed"  Trunk,  R.  ;  chair,  table,  c.  ;  chair,  L.  At 
rising  of  curtain,  a  train  is  heard  leaving. 

(Enter  BUSKIX,  L.,  with  carpet-bag,  umbrella,  and  sev- 
eral packages,  shouting),  Stop  that  train!  stop  that 
train.  (Exit  R.,  outside.)  Conductor!  engineer  !  brake- 
man  !  small  boy,  there  !  stop  that  train  !  (Re-enter,  R.) 
It's  no  use.  Too  late  again.  Always  too  late.  I'm  an 
unfortunate,  victimized,  undone  individual.  Convulsive- 
ly have  I  struggled  with  fate,  always  to  be  thrown  like 
a  short-winded  bruiser :  grappled  with  misfortune,  only 
to  get  a  blacked  eye  or  a  broken  nose.  Talk  about  your 
tides  in  the  affairs  of  man,  which,  taken  at  the  flood, 
lead  on  to  fortune  !  I  don't  see  it,  —  nary  a  tide.  Don't 

57 


58          TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 

I  take  them,  and  don't  I  get  taken  in  ami  taken  under? 
Look  at  me  !  Somebody  oblige  me  by  taking  a  careful 
survey  of  the  multitudinous  crowfeet  which  straggle 
adown  my  once  blooming  physiognomy.  Cast  an  oblique 
glance  at  tins  emaciated  frame,  once  adorned  with  the 
plumpness  and  fulness  of  an  alderman.  It's  all  the  effect 
of  plunging  into  those  selfsame  flood-tides,  and  here's  the 
effect  of  my  last  plunge  :  two  minutes  too. late  for  a  train 
which  should  be  bearing  me  on  to  fortune  in  the  shape 
of  a  fat  salary  as  eccentric  comedian  of  the  Eden  Varie- 
ties. And  here  I  am,  stuck  fust  in  this  out-of-the-way 
station,  ten  miles  away  from  any  habitation.  I'm  cer- 
tainly in  a  very  bad  way.  Is  there  anybody  here? 
Hallo  !  ticket-office,  porter,  anybody  !  Hallo  !  It  is 
hollow  with  a  vengeance.  Guess  this  railroad  runs  itself. 
"NY hat's  to  be  done?  I  can't  go  back  :  it's  getting  dark, 
and  I  should  lose  my  way.  When's  the  next  train  due? 
(Goes  to  time-table,  n.  c.)  "  Trains  for  Eden,  7^  P.M.,  9^ 
P.M."  Half-past  nine  !  two  mortal  hours  !  I  can  never 
stand  that!  Half-past  nine  !  why  that's  the  hour  ap- 
pointed for  meeting  the  manager  of  the  Varieties  !  Two 
hours  to  Eden  !  —  'twill  be  half-past  eleven  before  I  get 
there  ;  and  the  manager  will,  no  doubt,  be  snoring  in  bed. 
Well,  it's  no  use  to  worry.  Here  I  am,  and  here  I  must 
stay  ;  so  I'll  make  myself  comfortable.  Confound  the 
train!  Just  my  luck!  (Takes  up  paper,  and  sits,  L.) 
"  Horrible  murder  !  "  Well,  that's  comfortable.  What 
a  dismal  hole  this  is !  I  wish  I  was  well  out  of  it  ! 
(Takes  up  paper  again.)  "  Highway  robbery  !  "  Good 
gracious !  what  comfortable  arrangements  they  do  have 
in  this  depot !  Wonder  if  there's  a  gallows  anywhere 


TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN.          59 

about  the  premises  to  complete  the  pleasing  picture.     I 
shall  have  the  horrors  !     (Heads  the  paper.) 

SOCK  saunters  in,  L. 

Sock.  Well,  I  am  in  luck,  decidedly.  Here  before 
the  train.  There's  nothing  gives  one  such  pleasure  as 
being  on  time,  especially  where  trains  are  concerned  ;  for 
trains,  like  tiine,  wait  for  no  man,  except  he  be  a  gen- 
eral, when  I  believe  they  do  grant  a  little  delay.  This 
place  seems  as  lonesome  as  a  graveyard,  —  deadly  lively. 
Hallo  !  a  stranger.  Queer-looking  customer. 

Buskin.  (Heading.)  "  One  of  our  most  influential 
citizens,  while  seated  in  the  quietude  of  his  chamber,  was 
interrupted  by  a  ferocious-looking  burglar,  who,  in  the 
most  unceremonious  manner,  walked  into  his  apartment, 
and,  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder  —  " 

Sock.  (Tapping  him  on  the  shoulder.)  Good  evening, 
stranger  ! 

Buskin.  (Starting  up.)  Keep  off  !  keep  off  !  I'll 
sell  my  life  dearly  !  Keep  off  !  keep  off  ! 

Sock.     My  dear  sir,  don't  alarm  yourself. 

Buskin.  What  do  you  mean  by  entering  a  gentleman's 
apartment  in  that  manner? 

Sock.     Well,  come,  you  are  a  rich  one.     Apartment ! 

Buskin.  No :  I  ain't  a  rich  one.  I'm  a  decidedly 
poor  oue.  What  do  you  mean  by  tapping  me  on  the 
shoulder  in  that  manner? 

Sock.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir :  I  merely  wished  to 
ask  — 

Buskin.  Yes,  I  know,  "  Your  mon^y  or  your  life." 
But  you  can't  come  it  here.  I  haven't  any  money,  and 
rny  life's  insured. 


60  TOO   LATE   FOB   THE   TRAIN. 

Sock.     Don't  alarm  yourself:  I  am  not  in  that  line. 

Buskin.     I  wish  you  was  on  a  line,  with  all  my  heart. 

Sock.  I  merely  wish  to  ask  a  simple  question,  such 
as  one  traveller  would  ask  another.  When  is  the  train 
due? 

Buskin.     What  train  ? 

Sock.     The  train  for  Eden. 

Buskin.  You're  too  late  :  it's  gone.  (Seats  himself, 
and  takes  up  paper.) 

Sock.  Gone !  is  it  possible  ?  My  watch  must  be 
slow.  When  does  the  next  train  come  up  ? 

Buskin.  Sir,  is  there  any  thing  in  my  appearance 
that  would  lead  you  to  take  me  for  a  railroad-guide? 
There's  the  time-table  :  look  for  yourself. 

Sock.  A  decidedly  crossgraiued  customer.  (Goes  to 
time-table.)  "  Trains  for  Eden,  7£,  9£."  Well,  that's 
pleasant.  Two  hours  to  wait !  How  the  deuce  can  I 
pass  the  time  ?  I'll  talk  to  my  pugnacious  friend.  (Comes 
down,  and  seats  himself  on  table.  Takes  up  BUSKIN'S 
umbrella.)  Going  up  or  down,  sir? 

Buskin.  (Takes  umbrella  from  his  hand.)  What's 
that  to  you  ? 

Sock.     Oh!  nothing.     Going  to  Eden  perhaps ? 

Buskin.     Perhaps. 

Sock.     Business  there ?     (Takes  up  bundle.) 

Buskin.      (Taking  bundle.)     Possibly. 

Sock.     (Lifting  carpet-bag.)     What  is  it? 

Buskin.  Minding  my  own  business.  ( Takes  carpet- 
lag.) 

Sock.  Very  little  conversation  to  be  got  out  of  him. 
I'll  leave  him  alone.  (Goes  L.,  and  takes  book  from  his 
pocket.) 


TOO   LATE   FOB   THE   TEAIN.  61 

Buskin.  Thought  that  would  settle  him.  I  do  hate 
busybodies.  Wonder  who  he  is?  (Pause.)  Here! 
Going  to  Eden? 

Sock.     Hey  ?     Oh  !  —  possibly. 

Buskin.     Live  there  perhaps  ? 

Sock.     Perhaps. 

Buskin.     Might  I  inquire  your  name  ? 

Sock.     Certainly  you  might. 

Buskin.     Well? 

Sock.     Well,  what? 

Buskin.     I  asked  your  name. 

Sock.  No,  you  didn't :  you  asked  if  you  might  in- 
quire. 

Buskin.     Oh,  pshaw  !     What  is  your  name? 

Sock.     The  same  as  my  father's. 

Buskin.     Well,  what's  his? 

Sock.     The  same  as  mine. 

Buskin.     Well,  what's  both  your  names? 

Sock.     Both  alike. 

Buskin.  Oh,  humbug  !  Do  you  call  that  the  way  to 
answer  a  civil  question? 

Sock.  You  began  it ;  but  I  will  be  frank  with  you, 
for  I  am  in  danger,  and  need  a  confidant.  There  is  some- 
thing in  your  calm,  placid  face,  that  tells  me  I  can  trust 
you.  I  can  feel  that  the  milk  of  human  kindness  bubbles 
in  your  bosom  — 

Buskin.     Well,  let  it  bubble.     Go  on  with  your  story. 

Sock.  I  will :  be  seated.  Let  me  take  care  of  your 
umbrella.  (Attempts  to  take  it.) 

Buskin.     No,  I  thank  you. 

Sock.     Do.     It's  so  handy  in  case  of  a  shower. 


62  TOO   LATE   FOR  THE   TRAIN. 

Buskin.     What  kind  of  a  shower  do  you  expect  here? 

Sock.  A  shower  of  applause.  They're  very  prevalent 
here.  Bat,  to  my  story.  You  were  just  reading  the  ac- 
count of  a  horrid  murder? 

Buskin.  Oh,  horrors!  You  are  the  murderer? 
(Jumps  up.) 

Sock.  Sit  down.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Should  you  think 
I  had  just  escaped  from  a  lunatic  asylum? 

Buskin.     Oh,  murder  !     A  lunatic  !      (Jumps  up.) 

Sock.     Sit  down.     Not  a  bit  of  it. 

Buskin.  Who  the  deuce  are  you,  anyhow?  Why  don't 
you  disclose  yourself,  and  have  done  with  this  tomfoolery? 
You've  got  me  into  a  perspiration  with  your  infernal 
nonsense. 

Sock.     I  will  begin  at  the  beginning. 

Buskin.     What!  going  back  to  the  creation? 

Sock.  Well,  then,  in  the  first  place,  what  have  you 
in  that  bag? 

Buskin.  What's  that  to  you?  Go  ahead  with'  your 
history. 

Sock.  Well,  then,  first  my  name.  It's  Brown :  sin- 
gular name,  isn't  it? 

Buskin.  What,  Brown?  Nothing  very  singular 
about  that. 

Sock.     Not  in  Brown?    Why  it's  an  uncommon  name. 

Buskin.     Well,  well,  go  on. 

Sock.     Well,  as  I  said  before,  my  name  is  Dunn. 

Buskin.     Brown ! 

Sock.  Well,  my  dear  sir,  if  you  know  my  history 
better  than  I  do,  you  had  better  tell  it  yourself. 

Buskin.     No  !  no  !  tro  on. 


TOO   LATE   FOR  THE   TRAIN.  63 

Sock.     My  name  is  Dunn  — 

Buskin.     Brown. 

Sock.     Exactly !     Duun  Brown. 

Buskin.     Oh,  yes  !  I  see  it.     Dunn  Brown. 

Sock.  Well,  as  you  see,  it's  Dunn  Brown  on  both 
sides. 

Buskin.     (Sepulchral  laugh.)     Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sock.     What's  the  matter? 

Buskin.     I  was  only  laughing  at  your  joke. 

Sock.  Do  you  call  that  a  laugh  ?  It  sounds  as  though 
you  were  pulling  up  gravestones  by  the  roots. 

Buskin.     Go  on  !     Go  on  ! 

Sock.     I  am  the  son  of  poor  but  wealthy  parents. 

Buskin.     Oh,  pshaw  !     How  can  that  be? 

Sock.     Pray,  sir,  are  you  .acquainted  with  my  parents? 

Buskin.  No,  sir  ;  never  saw  them  ;  don't  believe  you 
ever  had  any.  What  kind  of  a  way  is  that  to  tell  a 
story?  Listen  to  me.  My  name  is  Buskin.  I  am  de- 
sirious  of  becoming  the  Eccentric  Comedian  of  the  Eden 
Varieties,  and  for  that  purpose  had  an  appointment  with 
the  manager  at  Eden  at  half-past  nine  o'clock.  Missed 
the  train,  and  here  I  am  with  a  madman  or  donkey  —  I 
don't  know  which.  That's  short  and  sweet. 

Sock.  Very.  (Aside.)  But  long  enough  for  my 
purpose.  So  this  is  the  individual  who  has  pestered 
me,  the  manager  of  the  Eden  Varieties.  We've  got  two 
hours  to  stop  here  :  he  doesn't  know  me.  A  chance  to 
combine  business  with  pleasure.  I'll  find  out  his  abili- 
ties. (Aloud.)  By  the  way.  Just  now,  when  you  were 
speaking  of  yourself,  you  mentioned  the  word  "  donkey." 
Can  you  tell  me  why  a  donkey  prefers  thistles  to  grass? 


64  TOO   LATE  FOR  THE   TRAIN. 

Buskin.     No  :  why  does  he  ? 

Sock.     Because  he's  a  jackass,  of  course. 

Buskin.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sock.  Go  it,  gravestones.  But  come ;  as  you  are 
desirous  of  becoming  a  comedian,  show  me  some  of  your 
eccentricities. 

Buskin.  No,  I  thank  you.  I  keep  them  for  appreci- 
ative audiences. 

Sock.  Well,  try  me.  I'll  make  a  capital  audience. 
I'll  drop  in  handsomely  with  the  judicious  applause. 

Buskin.  No,  I  thank  you :  drops  won't  do.  We 
must  have  a  shower. 

Sock.  Oh,  come  !  that's  a  good  fellow.  I  know  your 
manager,  and  will  speak  a  good  word  for  you. 

Buskin.     Will  you,  though  ?     That's  clever. 

Sock.  And  not  only  that,  but  I'll  assist  you.  I  do 
something  in  that  way  myself,  as  an  amateur.  I  can 
give  you  a  recitation  or  two. 

Buskin.  Well,  agreed ;  and  we'll  divide  the  profits. 
You  lead  off. 

Sock.     I'll  give  you  Macaulay's  "  Virginia." 

Recitation.     '•'•Virginia"  —  Macaulay.     SOCK. 

Buskin.  Very  affecting ;  but  so  sweet  a  maid  should 
have  died  a  sweeter  death. 

Sock.     What  do  you  call  a  sweet  death  ? 

Buskin.  Well,  choking  to  death  with  molasses  candy  : 
that's  a  sweet  death. 

Sock.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  I  always  liked  that  joke  :  but 
its  your  turn  ;  proceed. 

Buskin.     I'll  give  you  a  forensic  argument  that  has 


TOO   LATE   FOB   THE   TRAIN.  65 

acquired  some  repute,  "  The  speech  of  Sergeant  Buzfuz, 
counsel  for  the  prosecution  in  the  case  of  Bardwell  vs. 
Pickwick." 

Recitation.     "Sergeant  Buzfuz."  —  Dickens. 

Sock.  No  wonder  Sam  Weller,  senior,  cautions  his 
son  to  "  bevare  of  vidders."  But  come,  let's  have  a  song. 

Buskin.     "Well,  sing  away. 

Sock.  No,  I  thank  you.  That's  not  in  my  line.  You 
sing,  you  know. 

Buskin.     How  do  you  know? 

Sock.     You  said  so  in  your  letter. 

Buskin.     What  letter? 

Sock.  (Aside.}  Oh,  pshaw  !  I've  let  the  cat  out  of 
the  bag.  (Aloud.)  Letter,  did  I  say  letter?  I  said 
you'd  better. 

Buskin.     Oh,  very  well !  here  goes. 
Song.    BUSKIN. 

Sock.     By  the  by,  you  act,  don't  you  ? 

Buskin.     Yes,  occasionally. 

Sock.  Let's  have  a  scene  from  something.  Let  me 
see  —  what  shall  it  be  ? 

Buskin.     What  do  you  say  to  "  Ion"? 

Sock.     It's  too  heavy. 

Buskin.  "  Richard  the  Third."  "  A  horse  !  my 
kingdom  for  a  horse  !  " 

Sock.     No,  I  thank  you  :  I  don't  ride. 

Buskin.  Something  sensational?  "East  Lynne ; " 
that's  spirited. 

Sock.  I  prefer  "  Saugus."  There's  more  sole  there. 
I  have  it.  Let's  have  the  scene  so  familiar  in  our 

5 


06  TOO   LATE   FOR   THE   TRAIN. 

school-days,  —  "  Lochiel's  Warning."     That's   a  capital 
scene. 

Buskin.     Very  well.     I'll  do  "  the  wizard." 

Sock.     So  will  I. 

Buskin.     Oh,  pshaw  !  we  can't  both  have  it. 

Sock.     Very  well :  let's  toss  up  for  it. 

Buskin.     Agreed.      Here  goes.      (Tosses  up  copper.) 

Sock.     What  is  it? 

Buskin.     Heads. 

Sock.     You've  lost  —  it's  tails. 

Buskin.     Just  ray  luck. 

Scene.     "  LochieTs  Warning."  —  Campbell. 
Lochiel,  —  BUSKIN.      Wizard,  —  SOCK. 

END    OF   PART    I. 


PART    II. 

SCENE. — BUSKIN  discovered  asleep,  L.     SOCK  seated  on 

trunk,  R. 

Sock.  My  friend  has  taken  advantage  of  my  absence 
for  the  purpose  of  procuring  a  glass  of  water,  to  indulge 
in  a  siesta.  How  beautifully  he  sleeps !  (BUSKIN 
snores.)  How  frightfully  he  snores  !  Once  or  twice,  at 
the  sound  of  his  musical  voice,  I've  rushed  to  the  door, 
thinking  the  train  had  arrived.  It's  too  bad.  It's  so 
deuced  lonesome  here  I  want  some  amusement,  and  I 
must  have  it.  Hallo!  what's  this?  Unclaimed  bag- 
gage ?  "  Lenville,  Tragedian."  Somebody's  under  the 
weather.  Careless,  leaving  things  in  this  manner.  Some 
inquisitive  fellow  might  be  prying  into  it.  (Opens  trunk.) 


TOO   LATE   FOR   THE    TRAIN.  67 

Costumes  for  Hamlet  complete,  and  lots  of  other  things. 
Oh  !  now  we'll  have  a  show-piece.  Hallo  !  Buskin  ! 
Buskin  !  I  say,  wake  up :  day's  a  breaking. 

Buskin.     Let  it  break.     Don't  owe  me  nothing. 

Sock.  Come,  wake  up !  I've  found  a  treasure. 
Share  it  with  me. 

Buskin.     No,  I  never  take  shares  :  that's  played  out. 

Sock.     Wake  up  !   wake  up  ! 

Buskin.  What  do  you  want  now?  Cau't  a  man 
have  any  peace? 

Sock.  Yes  ;  I  want  to  give  you  piece, —  a  show-piece. 
Look  here ! 

Buskin.  Oh,  pshaw  !  Let  me  sleep.  "  Rock  me  to 
sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep."  (Snores.^) 

Sock.  Come,  come,  Buskin,  this  is  not  fair  play. 
You  know  I'm  to  speak  a  good  word  for  you,  and  I  never 
should  be  able  to  do  it  unless  you  give  me  another  song. 

Buskin.  (Bising.)  There's  no  rest  for  the  wicked,  is 
there  ? 

Sock.     No,  sir,  —  no  rest  for  the  wicked. 

Buskin.  You  must  be  an  awful  tired  man.  What 
will  you  have  ? 

Sock.     Any  thing  you  please. 

Buskin.  I'll  sing  you  the  remarkable  history  of  u  The 
Lost  Heir." 

Song.     "The  Lost  Heir."     BUSKIN. 

Sock.  Very  pathetic.  Now,  if  you  can  manage  to 
keep  your  eyes  open,  I'll  give  you  a  recitation. 

Recitation.     "The  Old  Man's  Prayer  " —  Baker.     SOCK. 
Buskin.     That's  a  first-rate  temperance  argument,  and, 


68  TOO    LATE   FOR  THE   TRAIN. 

strikes  me,  worth  more  than  prohibitory  law.  By  the 
by,  speaking  of  laws,  reminds  me  of  a  debating  society. 
You've  heard  my  story  of  "  The  Debating  Society"? 

Sock.     Never  did. 

Buskin.     Of  course  not :  it's  bran  new. 

Recitation.     "The  Debating  Society"      BUSKIN. 

Sock.  Look  here,  Buskin  :  here's  dresses  for  "  Ham- 
let and  The  Ghost."  Let's  have  a  show-piece.  (Goes 
to  trunk.) 

Buskin.     Yes  ;  but  I  don't  know  a  line  of  Hamlet. 

Sock.  Neither  do  I.  Let's  guess  at  it.  Come,  get 
into  these  regimentals. 

Buskin.     What !     Right  here  in  the  depot  ? 

Sock.  Of  course :  don't  be  modest.  Here,  I'll  fix 
you.  (Drops  curtain.)  There,  dress  away  while  our 
pianist  plays  the  overture.  (  Curtain  drops.) 

Overture.      Piano. 

Curtain  rises  on  "A  Hamlet  Fricassee."     Enter  SOCK,  as 
Hamlet,  c. ',  costume,  usual  Hamlet  dress. 

Hamlet.    "  To  be  or  not  to  be  ! "  oh  !  that's  played  out, 
And  gone  with  many  a  Hamlet  up  the  spout. 
The  question  now  is  not  confined  to  slings, 
To  which  state-constables  have  given  wings ; 
Nor  can  we  now  take  arms  'gainst  seas  of  trouble, 
Since  Fenian  caldrons  cease  to  boil  and  bubble. 
To  die  f  —  No !  no  !  that  Hamlet  cannot  tell 

While  we've  a *  that  can  dye  so  well. 

To  sleep  —  to  dream  —  ah !  there's  the  rubber 
Which  in  our  snoring  game  may  make  us  blubber ; 

*  Local  name. 


TOO    LATE   FOB   THE   TRAIN.  69 

For  in  that  sleep,  when  we  have  muffled  up  our  coils, 
In  soothing  nightcaps,  free  from  worldly  toils, 
What  dreams  may  come  —  must  give  us  pause 
Ere  we  snp  heartily  on  lobsters'  claws, 
Escalloped  oysters  !  —  fancy  roast  and  stew, 
Which  all  of  human  flesh  are  given  to. 
That's  the  respect  makes  fast-days  come  so  fast  ; 
For  who  would  bear  to  hunger  to  the  last  ? 
To  bear  the  pangs  of  clamorous  appetite ; 
With  watery  mouths  wage  a  perpetual  fight; 
But  that  the  fear  of  troublesome  digestion 
Raises  within  the  mind  this  weighty  question; 
But  that  the  fear  that  on  some  dismal  night, 
Waked  from  a  dream,  and  trembling  with  affright, 
His  burning  eyes  behold  his  mother's  ghost, 
Perched  on  the  apex  of  a  strong  bed-post. 

(Enter  BUSKIN,  as  "Ghost,"  L.  ;  costume,  complete  suit  of  white  cotton 
"armor.") 

Talking  of  ghosts  —  Police  defend  us, 
Prithee  !  no  more  such  frightful  spectres  send  us. 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  air?  or  are  you  one  of  Hellas? 
Spirit  of  Hartshorn  ?  or  some  other  fellow's? 
Be  thou  the  sphynx  ?  or  are  you  goblin  stuffed 
With  laughing-gas,  that's  by  our  dentists  puffed  ? 
Be  thy  intents  indifferent,  good,  or  bad  : 
I'll  speak  to  thee,  thou  lookest  so  like  my  dad. 
In  a  trim  grave  so  snugly  wast  thou  lain  : 
,_l .Say,  who  the  dickens  dug  you  up  again? 
Ghost.     I  am  thy  father's  spirit ! 
H.    Hush !  hush  !    I  pray  you  speak  more  low 
Of  spirits  :  our  state  constable's  below. 
He'll  seize  on  you. 

G.     Shut  up  your  clam-shell,  sonny ; 
Don't  bother  your  poor  dad,  now,  that's  a  honey. 
Just  hold  your  gab,  for  I  must  quickly  go : 
I'm  pressed  for  time  —  we  keep  good  hours  below. 


70          TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 

Soon  I  must  go,  and  have  another  roast : 
So  pray  attend  to  me. 

//.     Alas !  poor  ghost ! 

G.    Bat  that  I  am  forbid  to  talk  and  chatter, 
I  could  a  talc  unfold  ;  but  that's  no  matter. 
If  you  would  like  to  hear.     List !  list !  oh,  list ! 

II.     (Producing  a  long  piece  of  list  from  his  poclcct.) 
Here  'tis,  instantcr;  strong,  upon  my  word. 

G.     Pshaw !  I'm  going  to  sing. 

II.    I  see  you  want  a  chord.     Mr.  Pianist,  oblige  us  with  a  chord. 

(Sony,  GHOST.  —  Tune,  "Giles  Scrojyins'  Ghost."    From  J.  F. 
Pook's  "Hamlet  Travestie.") 

Behold  in  me  your  father's  sprite,  —  Ri  tol  tiddy  lol  dc  ray, 

Doomed  for  a  term  to  walk  the  night.  —  Tiddy,  tiddy,  &c. 

You'll  scarce  believe  me  when  I  say 

That  I'm  bound  to  fast  in  fires  all  day 

Till  my  crimes  arc  burnt  and  purged  away.  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

But  that  I  am  forbid  to  blow,  — Hi  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

The  dreadful  secrets  which  I  know.  — Tiddy,  tiddy,  &c. 

I  could  such  a  dismal  talc  unfold, 

As  would  make  your  precious  blood  run  cold. 

But,  ah !  those  things  must  not  be  told.  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

Your  father  suddenly  you  missed,  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  £c. 

I'll  tell  you  how  —  List !     List !     Oh,  list !  —  Tiddy,  tiddy,  &c. 

'Twas  given  out  to  all  the  town 

That  a  serpent  pulled  your  father  down. 

But  now  that  serpent  wears  his  crown.  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

One  afternoon,  as  was  my  use,  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

I  went  to  my  orchard  to  take  a  snooze,  —  Tiddy,  tiddy,  &c. 

When  your  uncle  into  my  car  did  pour 

A  bottle  of  cursed  hellebore. 

How  little  did  I  think  I  should  wake  no  more !  — Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

Doomed  by  a  brother's  hand  was  I,  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 
To  lose  my  crown,  my  wife,— to  die.  —  Tiddy,  tiddy,  &c. 


TOO    LATE   FOR   THE   TRAIN.  71 

I  should  like  to  have  settled  my  worldly  affairs; 

But  the  rascal  came  on  so  unawares, 

That  I  hadn't  even  time  to  say  my  prayers.  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

Torment  your  uncle  for  my  sake  ;  — Ri  tol  tiddy,  £c. 

Let  him  never  be  at  peace,  asleep  or  awake.  —  Tiddy,  tiddy,  £c. 

Your  mother's  plague  let  her  conscience  be  : 

But  I  must  be  off;  for  ths  daylight  I  see. 

Adieu !  adieu  !  adieu !     Remember  me  !  —  Ri  tol  tiddy,  &c. 

H.     My  royal  Nibbs,  I'll  read  you  a  riddle  short : 
Oblige  me  with  a  tune  on  the  pianoforte. 

G.     Oh,  fiddle  de  dee !  I  can't  play  that,  I  own  : 
I'll  give  you  a  solo  on  the  big  trombone. 

II.     And  yet  you  think  on  me  that  you  can  play, 
Who  can't  handle  this  ere  piano,  any  way. 
Now,  that's  played  out.     Do  you  see  that  cloud  up  there  ? 

G.    Wait  till  I  get  my  specs.     I  do,  I'll  swear ! 

II.     Mcthinks  it's  like  a  waterfall. 

G.    'Tis  —  to  a  hair. 

H.     Mcthinks  it's  like  a  whale.     Pray,  what  think  you? 

G.     A  whale !  no,  no  !     Just  whale  me  if  it  do. 

H.     And  yet  — 

(Bell  rings,  whistle  sounds,  outside.) 

Sock.  What's  that?  The  train!  upon  my  word! 
Off  with  your  togs  !  we  shall  be  too  late  again.  (Both 
rush  round,  endeavoring  to  get  off  their  dresses.) 

Buskin.     Oh,  murder  !     I  can  never  get  these  togs  off 

time.     What  a  pickle  have  you  got  me  in  now  ! 

Sock.  No  matter :  wear  them.  It's  late :  no  one 
will  see  you.  Come,  get  your  togs. 

BusJcin.  But  what  will  the  manager  say  to  sec  me  in 
this  rig? 

Sock.  Say  just  what  I  do  :  it's  all  right.  And  you 
shall  have  the  situation  ;  for  I  am  the  manager. 


in 


72          TOO  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 

Buskin.     You?     (Gets  his  bag  and  umbrella.) 

Sock.  Yes,  I ;  and  delighted  to  have  so  fiue  an  acqui- 
sition to  my  company.  So  let's  be  off. 

Buskin.  Yes  ;  but  we  must  say  something  here.  (To 
audience.) 

Sock.     Of  course  we  must ;  so  you  say  it. 

Buskin.  What  shall  I  say?  Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
we  are  very  much  obliged  for  the  kind  and  — 

Sock.     Come,  come  !  hurry  up  ! 

Buskin.  "We  have  enjoyed  ourselves  waiting  for  the 
train  ;  and,  if  you  have  been  entertained,  we  should  not 
regret  being  —  being  —  (  Outside  —  "All  aboard  I ") 

Sock.    Too  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN. 

CURTAIN. 

NOTE.  —  Songs  or  recitations  may  be  introduced  in  this  piece  to 
suit  the  taste  and  the  ability  of  the  performers. 


A  GRECIAN  BEND. 

.A.  FJL&CH. 

FOR   FEMALE    CHARACTERS    ONLY. 


CHARACTEES. 

MRS.  FIELD,  a  Matron  of  forty. 

KITTY  FIELD,  eighteen. )  ,,     --.       ,  . 

'  >  Her  Daughters. 
BESSIE  FIELD,  twelve,    ) 

SUSY  FOLLEIGH,  eighteen. 
JENNY  SANDS,  seventeen. 
AUNT  DERBY  DENT,  sixty. 
NORAH,  the  help. 


COSTUMES.  —  Modern  and  appropriate. 

SCENE.  —  MRS.  FIELD'S  sitting-room.  Table,  E.,  with 
rocking-chair  L.  of  it.  Lounge,  R.,  on  which  is  reclin- 
ing SUSY  FOLLEIGH,  reading  a  novel.  KITTY  FIELDS 
and  JENNY  SANDS  Seated,  c ;  KITTY  holding,  and 
JENNY  winding,  a  slcein  of  worsted. 

Susy.  (Throwing  down  the  book.)  "Bleeding 
hearts  !  "  Nothing  but  "  bleeding  hearts  !  "  Modern 
novels,  with  their  sensational  plots,  are  so  stupid ! 
Lovely  young  women  rescued  by  interesting  young  men. 
Moonlight  meetings  in  rustling  groves.  How  very  tire- 
some !  I'd  give  the  world  for  a  glance  at  the  last  new 

73 


74  A    GRECIAN   BEND. 

fashion-plate,  or  one  page  of  fashionable  intelligence 
Why  do  not  authors,  by  way  of  variety,  pay  more  atten- 
tion to  descriptions  of  toilet,  or  sketches  of  fashionable 
society?  I'm  sure,  nothing  could  be  more  interesting 
than  to  know  how  people  are  dressing.  It  would  cer- 
tainly astonish  the  dwellers  in  this  desolate  spot. 

Jenny.  Why,  Susy,  you  are  not  very  complimentary 
to  Aunt  Field's  beautiful  place.  To  be  sure,  it  is  not 
quite  so  elegant  as  your  father's  fashionable  home  in  the 
city.  But  you  know  you  came  here  for  change,  and  you 
can  scarcely  expect  ihe  display  of  dress  and  fashion  to 
which  you  have  been  accustomed. 

Susy.  Oh  !  I  like  it  well  enough.  I'm  only  complain- 
ing of  the  stupid  reading  we  are  obliged  to  have  here. 
I'm  dying  to  know  the  latest  fashion  in  dress,  the  last 
new  style  of  hat;  and  there  is  positively  nothing  in  this 
book  to  enlighten  me,  although  it  is  called  a  modern 
fashionable  novel. 

Kitty.  Why,  Susy,  would  you  have  our  authors 
taught  the  dressmaker's  trade  before  they  send  their 
books  into  the  world? 

Jenny.  Yes :  Susy  would  have  them  learn  to  clothe 
their  subjects  in  fashionable  attire  before  they  are 
introduced  to  good  society. 

Susy.     (Taking   up   a   book.)     I'm    sure    they  neefll 
teaching.     How  much  more   interesting  it  would   be  r^* 
read  that  "  S*tella  Augusta,  robed   in  white  Cashmere, 
adorned  with  bugles,  gored  skirt,  and  flowing  train,  hair 
bedecked  with  japonicas   and  moss-rose  buds,  a  white 
opera  cape  thrown  over  her  shoulders,  appeared   upon 
the  moonlit  balcony,  just  as  Alphonso,  in  his  becoming 


A   GRECIAN  BEND.  75 

shooting-jacket  of  black  velvet,  a  resplendent  diamond 
gleaming  from  his  immaculate  ruffled  bosom,  flowing 
collar  and  Magenta  tie,  lavender  kids  and  Malacca 
cane,  curly  locks  and  raven  mustache,  advanced  from 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  !  " 

Jenny.  Or  "  Stella  Augusta,  in  her  spotted  gingham, 
brown  Holland,  or  sixpenny  print,  with  her  hair  tightly 
curled  in  the  remnants  of  '  The  AVeekly  Clarion.' " 
(Laughing.)  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Kitty.     And    "  Alphonso,    in    a    butcher's  frock,  his 

shapely  head  shorn  of  its  auburn  locks,  a  brown  '  widc- 

•    awake '   shielding   his    lovely   mustache    from   the    sun, 

advancing  from  the  grove,  gayly  whistling,  '  Oh,  dear ! 

what  can  the  matter  be? '  '      Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Susy.  Girls,  I  am  shocked  at  your  want  of  delicacy. 
'Tis  the  fault  of  your  education.  You  have  never 
moved  in  fashionable  society,  and  can  have  little  sympa- 
thy for  the  feelings  of  one  who  is  out  of  her  sphere 
when  not  moving  in  those  circles  whose  boundaries 
guard  the  select. 

Jenny.     Oh,  clear  !  what  privations  ! 

Kitty.     My  stars  !  what  a  martyr  ! 

Enter  MRS.  FIELD,  R. 

Mrs.  Field.  Kitty,  you  must  come  into  the  kitchen 
and  help  me.  I  shall  never  get  my  washing  out  in  the 
world.  I've  sent  that  Norah  to  Mr.  Hanson's  for  soft 
soap.  She's  been  gone  an  hour,  and,  for  all  1  know,  has 
tumbled  into  his  barrel. 

Kitty.  I'll  come,  mother.  I  should  like  a  good  spell 
at  the  wash-tub. 


76  A   GRECIAN   BEND. 

Sitsy.  The  wash-tub  !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  wash  and  scrub  ! 

Mrs.  Field.  To  be  sure  she  does  ;  and  a  right  smart 
washer  and  ironer  she  is  too,  if  I  do  say  it. 

Susy.  Why,  it  will  spoil  your  figure,  bending  over  a 
tub.  I  couldn't  do  it. 

Kitty.     I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  of  it. 

Jenny.  No,  indeed :  'tis  a  wholesome  exercise,  and 
I'll  go  and  help  you. 

Norah.  (Outside,  B.)  Miss  Faild,  Miss  Faild !  I 
have  the  soap,  mam. 

Enter  NORAH,  E. 

Mrs.  Field.     Why,  Norah,  where  have  you  been  ? 

Norah.  Faith,  mam,  for  the  soap,  jist.  You  niver 
towld  me  there  was  two  Mr.  Hansons  ;  and  I  wint  to 
the  docthor's  shop  fust,  but  he  had  no  soap  ;  but  he 
axed  me,  mam,  were  we  well?  and  he  towld  me,  mam, 
you  should  be  very  careful,  for  there's  a  terrible  faver 
coome  to  the  place,  and  it's  breaking  out  iverywhere. 
Oh,  it's  myself  wishes  I  was  back  in  ould  Ireland,  sure. 

Mrs.  Field.     A  terrible  fever? 

Norah.     Yis,  mum.     He  called  it  "  a  Gracian  Bind," 
that  attacks  the  vitals,  and  binds  one  up   like  a  jack-< 
knife ;  and  the  pains  are  so  orful  that  it  lifts  yer  upon 
the  tips  of  yer  toes.     Oh,  musha  !     Oh,  dear  ! 

Kitty.     Nonsense,  Norah  !     'Twas  only  a  joke. 

Norah.  Joke,  is  it?  Faith,  it's  no  joke  to  catch  the 
faver,  sure. 

Mrs.  Field.     Well,  well ;  come  to  the  kitchen  at  once. 


A   GRECIAN    BEND.  77 

We  shall  never  get  the  washing  out  at  this  rate.  Kitty, 
I  can  do  without  you  now.  Come,  Norah.  [Exit,  R. 

Norah.  Yis,  mam  ;  I'm  a  cooming.  O  Miss  Kitty  ! 
'tis  afraid  of  the  faver  I  am.  [Exit,  R. 

Kitty.  "A  Grecian  Bend."  That's  what  Norah 
would  call  a  quare  name  for  a  faver. 

Jenny.  Oh!  it's  only  a  joke  of  Mr.  Hanson's.  (Bell 
rings.)  Ah !  visitors. 

Kitty.     On  washing-day  !     Who  can  it  be  ? 

Susy.  I  must  run  to  my  room.  I'm  not  dressed  for 
callers. 

Enter  NORAH,  with  a  letter,  R. 

Norah.  If  you  plase,  Miss  Susy,  here's  a  letther ; 
and  the  expressman  has  brought  a  whacking  big  box ; 
and  he  axed,  had  we  it  too? 

Kitty.     "What  do  you  mean  by  it,  Norah  ? 

Norah.  The  faver,  Miss  Kitty.  "  The  Gracian 
Bind."  Oh,  musha !  It's  kilt  we  tire  intirely. 

Susy.  A  letter  for  me.  (Opens  it.)  From  mother. 
(Sits  on  lounge  and  reads  it.) 

Kitty.  Nonsense,  Norah :  there's  no  fever  in  the 
place. 

Jenny.  But  I  must  say  I  have  a  great  curiosity  to 
know  what  this  "  Grecian  Bend  "  is. 

Norah.  Curiosity,  is  it?  Faith,  I've  none  to  see  a 
faver. 

Mrs.  Fietd.     (Outside,  R.)     Norah,  Norah  ! 

Norah.  Coomin'  coomin' !  Oh,  dear !  I've  got  a 
chill  and  a  hot  flush  ;  and  I'm  sure  it's  the  faver  coom- 
in' !  Oh,  dear  !  What  will  I  do  ?  What  will  I  do  ? 

[Exit,  ii. 


78  A   GRECIAN   BEND. 

Enter  AUNT  DEBBY,  L. 

Aunt  Dcbby.  Dear  me  !  what  have  I  done  with  ray 
speticles?  I  declare,  I'm  always  losin'  somethin'  or 
uother.  (Looks  on  table.)  They  aiu't  here.  My  fust 
husbaud  used  to  say,  (To  KITTY.)  Ain't  you  settin'  on 
'em!  (KiTTY  rises.)  No,  they  aiu't  there.  —  My  fust 
husband —  Brass-bowed.  —  (To  JENNY.)  P'r'aps 
they're  in  your  cheer.  (JENNY  rises.)  No.  Where 
could  they  have  gone  to? —  My  fust  husband —  Cost 
nine  and  six.  —  (To  S.USY.)  P'r'aps  they're  on  the  sofa. 
(SuSY  rises.)  No.  I  declare,  where  can  they  have 
gone  to? 

Kitly.     Aunt  Dcbby,  what's  that  on  your  forehead? 

Aunt  Dcbby.  (Removes  spectacles  from  her  forehead.) 
My  speticles,  I  do  declare  !  Well,  well :  my  memory  is 
giuuin  out.  My  fust  husband  used  to  say —  (Goes  to 
table.)  Anybody  seen  my  scissors?  (To  JENNY.)  — 
Won't  you  please  git  up  ;  pVaps  they're  in  your  cheer. 
(JENNY  rises.)  No.  My  fust  husband  —  him  as  was 
a  Spooner,  Hiram  Spooner.  —  (To  KITTY.)  — Won't 
you  please  let  rne  look  in  your  cheer?  (KiTTY  rises.) 
No:  they  ain't  there.  Spooner  says,  says  he —  Sharp- 
pinted —  (To  SUSY.)  —  Shall  I  trouble  you  ag'in? 
(SusY  rises.)  No.  Where  on  airth  have  them  scissors 
got  to? 

Jenny.  Aunt  Debby,  what's  that  hanging  at  your 
side  ? 

Aunt  Debbij.  Them  plaguy  scissors,  as  'sure  as  I'm 
alive  !  Well,  well :  it  does  beat  all  natur  !  It's  jest 
what  my  fust  husband  always  said.  Says  he,  Debby, 
you're  so  forgetful,  you'll  forget  you've  got  a  husband, 


A   GRECIAN   BEND.  79 

and  be  marryin'  ag'in,  some  day.  But  I  never  did  —  as 
long  as  he  lived,  any  way.  (Sits  in  rocking-chair  and 
darns  stockings.) 

Susy.  Oh,  isn't  this  splendid!  A  new  sensation  in 
fashionable  circles.  Mother  has  written  me  all  about  it. 

Jenny.     A  new  sensation  !     What  is  it? 

Kitty.     Something  to  do  with  "  women's  rights?  " 

Jenny.     A  new  bonnet? 

Kitty.     Something  good  to  eat? 

Jenny.     Or  a  new  book? 

Susy.     Neither.     'Tis  "  the  Grecian  Bend." 

Jenny  and  Kitty.      "  The  Grecian  Bend?  " 

Aunt  Delby.  Greasy  Ben  ?  Why,  that  must  be  John 
Hodgkins's  son,  that  my  second  husband,  him  as  was  a 
Skinner,  pulled  out  of  the  taller  vat.  They  called  him 
Greasy  Ben  ever  arterwards.  I  want  to  know  if  you've 
got  a  letter  from  him? 

Kitty.  No,  no,  Aunt  Debby  :  Susy  has  a  letter  from 
her  mother,  acquainting  her  with  some  new  fashion. 

Aunt  Delby.  Do  tell !  Are  they  wearin'  bumbazines 
or  ginghams  mostly?  And  how's  cotton  —  hey? 

Jenny.  The  "Grecian  Bend  !  "  Why,  that's  Norah's 
faver. 

Kitty.     Oh,  do  tell  us  what  it  is ! 

Susy.  No  :  I  will  give  you  an  agreeable  surprise. 
Mother  has  sent  me  every  thing  necessary  for  a  display 
of  the  new  fashion.  When  you  next  see  me,  you  shall 
know  all.  Good-by.  [Exit,  L. 

Jenny.     Now,  isn't  this  provoking  ! 

Kitty.     A  proud,  stuck-up  thing  ! 

Jenny.     But  a  good  heart,  Kitty.     I'm  sure  we  both 


80  A   GRECIAN  BEND. 

love  her  clearly.  Susy  has  been  spoiled  by  over-indul- 
gence. You  know  her  parents  are  very  fashionable 
people. 

Kitty.  I  know  they  are ;  but  that's  no  reason  why 
she  should  come  here  and  put  on  such  airs.  Her  father 
and  mine  were  nothing  but  travelling  peddlers  once.  I 
think  she  might  tell  us  about  this  new  sensation,  as  she 
calls  it. 

Bessie.  ( Outside,  R.)  School's  done.  School's  done. 
Oh,  ain't  I  glad  ! 

[Enter  E.,  throws  her  books  into  one   corner,  her  hat  in 
another,  and  her  shawl  on  the  table.~\ 

Hallo,  Kitty !  Hallo,  Cousin  Jenny  !  Oh,  we've  had 
such  splendid  fun  to-day !  Hallo,  Aunt  Debby !  I've 
got  home. 

Aunt  Debby.  Well,  you  needn't  have  told  on  it. 
Sich  a  racket  I  never  did  hear  ! 

Bessie.  Oh  !  yes  you  have,  Aunt  Debby.  Ain't  yoa 
going  to  give  me  a  kiss?  (Puts  her  arm  around  AUNT 
DEBBY'S  neck,  and  kisses  her.) 

Aunt  Debby.  Massy  sakes  !  You've  ruined  my  new 
cap  ! 

Bessie.  Well,  it's  too  bad.  But  never  mind ;  I'll 
iron  it  for  you.  Oh,  such  fun  !  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it.  Miss  Jinks,  our  teacher,  has  got  it. 

Kitty.     Got  what? 

Bessie.     "  The  Grecian  Bend." 

Jenny.     "  The  Grecian  Bend  "  again. 

Bessia.     Yes  :  we  were  all  in  school,  and  having  such 


A   GRECIAN   BEND.  81 

fun,  throwing  spit-balls,  and  making  faces,  and  playing 
cat's-cradle,  when  the  door  opened,  and  in  came  Miss 
Jinks.  My !  such  a  figure !  She  looked,  for  all  the 
world,  like  our  speckled  hen  Fanny,  when  she  waddles 
about  hunting  for  crumbs,  so  —  (imitates).  She  had  a 
brand  new  black  dress,  with  a  trail,  Oh !  a  mile  long,  I 
guess  ;  and  such  high-heeled  boots  !  She  walked  so  — 
(imitates),  and  held  her  hands  so —  (imitates)  ;  and  her 
nose  was  red,  aud  her  corkscrew  curls  stuck  out,  and  — 
and  —  Oh,  dear  !  I  can't  tell  what  she  did  look  like  ! 
She  was  so  funny !  and  the  girls  giggled,  and  the  boys 
laughed  right  out !  Tom  Mason  said  she  was  sick  ;  and 
Bobby  Sawyer,  he  said  she  was  in  affliction  !  and  Fred 
Jordan,  he  whispered  to  me  she  had  "  the  Grecian 
Bend  !  "  Oh,  it  was  so  fuuny ! 

Jenny.     Kitty,  we've  a  full  description  of  it  now. 

Kitty.     But  I  don't  understand  it. 

Bessie.  Well,  here  it  is,  exact.  (Produces  a  picture.) 
Charlie  Haddara  gave  it  to  me,  and  it  looks  just  like 
Miss  Jinks. 

Kitty.     (Taking picture.)     "Why,  what  a  fright ! 

Bessie.     Just  like  Miss  Jinks  ! 

Jenny.     She  looks  as  though  she  was  going  to  fall. 

Bessie.     Just  like  Miss  Jinks  ! 

Kitty.     It's  black  in  the  face  ! 

Bessie.     Just  like  Miss  Jinks  ! 

Aunt  Debby.  What  Jinks  is  that?  I  used  to  know 
a  Sally  Jinks :  she  was  a  second  cousin  to  my  third 
husband,  him  as  was  a  Moody. 

Bessie.  Oh !  this  ain't  her,  Aunt  Debby.  But 
Where's  mother?  Where's  Norah?  I'm  as  hungry  as 


82  A   GRECIAN   BEND. 

a  bear ;  and  I  want  a  piece  of  mince-pie  and  a  pickle. 
Norah,  Norah  ! 

Norah.     (Outside,  n.)     Coomiu',  coomiu' ! 

Enter  u. 

Bessie,     Hallo,  Norah  :  I've  got  something  for  you. 

Norah.     "What  is  it,  honey? 

Bessie.  (Gives  her  the  picture.)  "  The  Grecian 
Bend." 

Norah.  (Drops  the  picture.)  Oh,  murder,  murder ! 
It's  the  favor.  It's  kilt  I  am  intirely!  [Exit,  B. 

Bessie.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  the  favcr  I  What  does  she 
mean  by  that? 

Kitty.  Some  one  has  been  telling  her  "  the  Grecian 
Bend  "  is  a  fever,  and  the  poor  girl  really  believes  it. 

Bessie.  Does  she?  Oh,  isn't  that  fun!  Won't  I 
plague  her !  But  I'll  have  my  mince-pie  and  pickle 
first.  [Exit,  B. 

Jenny.     We  have  discovered  Susy's  secret. 

Kitty.  Yes ;  and  I  propose  to  make  a  good  use 
of  it. 

Jenny.     How,  pray? 

Kitty.  We  know  her  silly  passion  for  dress.  Aunt 
Debby  will  be  sure  to  remain  here  for  the  next  hour. 
I  am  going  to  her  room.  You  shall  go  with  me  ;  and  I 
will  describe  a  little  plot  I  have  in  my  mind,  by  which 
we  may  amuse  ourselves,  and  perhaps  give  Su.<y  a 
lesson. 

Jenny.  A  little  plot !  So  you  have  a  secret,  as  well 
as  Susy. 


A   GRECIAN  BEND.  83 

Kitty.  Which  I  will  tell  you,  for  I  shall  need  your 
assistance.  So  come  with  me. 

[Exeunt  KITTY  and  JENNY,  L. 

Aunt  Debby.  Now  them  gals  are  up  to  mischief.  I 
never  see  two  critters  with  their  heads  together  so  close, 
but  what  there's  some  kind  of  mischief  brewin'. 

[Enter  SUSY,  L.,  in  "  Grecian  Bend"  rich  dress,  high- 
heeled  boots,  long  train,  pannier,  &c.,  tottering  slowly, 

.  endeavoring  to  keep  her  balance,  and  her  hands  in  the 
position  usually  represented  in  the  prints.^ 

What  on  airth  is  that?  Hosy  said  there  was  a  caravan 
in  town  ;  and  I  do  believe  one  of  the  annemiles  has 
broken  loose.  It  looks  like  a  kangaroo.  Shoo,  shoo ! 
Go  away,  go  away,  or  I'll  holler. 

Susy.  Oh,  dear !  I'm  so  tired.  This  waist  is  so 
tight,  and  this  Bend  is  so  painful !  If  it  wasn't  the 
fashion,  I  should  say  it  was  very  ridiculous.  (Attempts 
to  walk,  and  nearly  falls.)  Dear  me  !  I  shall  fall. 

Aunt  Debby.  Shoo,  shoo!  Scat!  Will  you  go 
away  ? 

Susy.  Why,  Aunt  Debby !  don't  you  know  me  ? 
It's  Susy  Folleigh. 

Aunt  Debby.  Land  sakes  !  You  don't  say  so  !  Why, 
what's  the  matter?  Got  the  rheumatics,  or  the  sciat- 
iky  ?  or  you  going  to  faint  —  hey  ? 

Susy.     No,  no. 

Aunt  Debby.  Where's  my  camphire?  (Runs  to 
table.)  Where  on  airth  is  my  camphire !  That's  jest 
like  me  !  Never  can  find  nothin'.  Here,  Sarah  !  Sarah 
Jane  !  Norah !  Water !  Water  !  Quick ! 


84  A   GRECIAN   BEND. 

Susy.  Why,  Aunt  Debby,  I'm  quite  well.  (Attempts 
to  walk,  and  totters.) 

Au'.t  Debby.     There  ypu  go. 

[Enter  NORAH,  R.,  with  a  glass  of  water  on  a  tray,  stum- 
bles over  the  long  train  of  SUSY'S  dress,  and  drops 
tray.] 

Susy.  You  stupid  thing !  Couldn't  you  see  my 
dress  ? 

Aunt  Debly.  (Leads  SUSY  to  lounge.)  This  poor 
child  is  sick. 

Susy.  I  assure  you  nothing  is  the  matter.  I'm  only 
practising  "  the  Grecian  Bend." 

Norah.  "  The  Gracian  Bind,"  is  it  ?  Oh,  musha ! 
the  faver's  in  the  house,  and  we're  all  kilt  intirely !  Oh, 
murder  !  Will  I  run  for  the  docthor  ? 

Aunt  Debby.  (Runs  to  table.)  Where's  my  fan? 
Massy  sakes !  where's  my  fan?  Gone:  that's  jest 
like  me ! 

Norah.  Will  I  run  to  the  docthor's  for  a  proscription  f 
She's  doubled  up  !  It's  the  symptims  intirely  ! 

Susy.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  stopping  your  med- 
dling. I  am  quite  well,  and  want  none  of  your 
attentions. 

Aunt  Debby.  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that.  (  Goes  back  to 
table.)  I  did  think  you  had  an  attack  of  rheumatics  ; 
and  I'm  awful  skeery  about  it,  for  my  fourth  husband, 
Deacon  Higgins,  — 

Norah.  Oh,  dear  !  Oh,  dear  !  The  faver,  the  faver  ! 
I'll  run  for  the  docthor,  sure !  (Starts  for  door,  and 
meets  BESSIE,  who  enters,  R.)  —  Oh,  you  poor,  dear 


A    GRECIAN   BEND.  85 

child  !  you  mustn't  come  a-near  the  faver,  or  it's  a  poor 
lone  orphan  you'll  be,  sure. 

Bessie.     What's  the  matter,  Norah  ? 

Norah.  It's  the  faver.  —  "  the  Gracian  Bind."  Miss 
Susy  has  it.  Whist !  Be  quiet,  clarlin' !  I'll  run  for 
the  docthor. 

Bessie.  Oh,  my  !  Susy's  got  a  "  Grecian  Bend  !  "  Oh, 
isn't  this  fun  !  Where  are  you  going,  Norah  ? 

Norah.     For  a  proscription  to  kill  the  faver. 

Bessie.  That  isn't  the  fever,  Norah  ;  that's  the  new 
fashion.  Everybody  is  going  to  adopt  it.  It  will  be 
raging. 

Norah.     It's  catchin',  and  I've  niver  been  vassinated. 

Bessie.  Yes :  everybody,  even  the  servants,  must 
dress  in  that  way.  You  must  have  one. 

Norah.     Must  I?     Will  it  keep  off  the  faver? 

Bessie.     Yes.     Oh,  yes  !  it's  a  sure  preventive. 

Norah.     But  where  will  I  get  it? 

Bessie.     You  come  with  me.     I'll  fix  you  all  right. 

Norah.  Will  I  look  like  that?  'Twill  break  my 
back  intirely. 

Bessie.     I'll  fix  you  up  so  nice  !     Come  along. 

[Exit,  B. 

Norah.  Yes,  darling!  Faith,  she's  a  bright  little 
thing  to  hilp  a  body  in  distress.  [Exit,  K. 

Aunt  Debby.  Shan't  I  make  you  a  little  soothin' 
yarb  tea? 

Susy.     No. 

Aunt  Delby.     Some  hot  water  for  your  feet. 

Susy.     No. 

Aunt  Debby.     A  little  pennyrial  — 

Susy.     No  :  I  want  nothing —  but  to  be  let  alone. 


86  A    GRECIAN   BEND. 

Aunt  Dcbby.  Well,  of  all  the  kantagarus  things 
that  ever  I  did  see  !  Why  dou't  you  Icau  back  on  the 
sofy  ? 

Susy.  (Aside.}  I  wish  I  could.  It  won't  let  me. 
I'd  go  back  to  my  room,  but  I'm  afraid  to  start,  for  fear 
I  should  tumble. 

Enter  XoiiAH. 

Norah.  Faix,  here's  another  with  it,  mam,  and  she 
wants  to  see  Miss  Folleigh. 

Susy.     To  see  me?     Show  her  up,  Norah. 
Norah.     She's  a  coomin',  ma'am.  [Exit  NORAH,  B. 

[Enter  JENNY,  dressed  in  short  red  petticoat,  with  overskirt 
of  brown,  pinned  up  all  around:  a  " pillow,"  high- 
heeled  shoes,  red  stockings,  small  white  shawl,  roomy 
lonnet  to  hide  her  face:  the  dress  of  thirty  years  ago, 
in  imitation  of  "  the  Grecian  Bend." 

Susy.     Wiiom  have  we  here,  I  wonder. 

Jenny.  Miss  Folleigh,  I  believe.  (Susr  bows.) 
Glad  to  see  you.  I  am  Miss  Rebecca  Short,  the  leader 
of  the  tun  iu  this  place.  I  heerd  there  was  a  fashiona- 
ble young  lady  here  who  had  the  "  bend."  You  see,  I 
have  it  too  ;  and  as  I  never  had  seen  a  real  "  bend,"  I 
thought  I'd  better  give  you  a  call.  You  must  know 
I  heerd  of  the  bend  from  my  brother  Darius,  who  seed 
it  iu  Saratogy.  lie  told  me  what  it  was  like,  and  I've 
fixed  it  up  as  well  as  I  could,  to  git  the  start  of  that 
pesky  Hannah  Long,  who's  forever  trying  to  get  the 
start  of  me.  How  is  it  about  the  style?  (Struts 
round.) 

Susy.      (Aside.)     Mercy  !   what  a  fright ! 


A   GRECIAN   BEND.  87 

Jenny.  Now,  speak  right  out :  don't  be  mealy- 
mouthed  :  for  of  all  things  I  detest  a  flatterer. 

Susy.     Well,  theu,  Miss  —  Miss  — 

Jenny.     Short :  Rebecca  Short. 

Aunt  Debby.  Short?  Becky  Short?  Be  you  any 
connection  of  the  Shorts  of  Saccarap? 

Jenny.     Not  the  least  in  the  world. 

Aunt  Debby.  Oh  !  I  thought  p'r'aps  you  might  be 
my  fifth  husband's  — 

Jenny.  Miss  Folleigh,  won't  you  please  stand  up  and 
step  round  a  little,  so  I  can  see  how  you  look  ? 

Susy.  (Aside.)  Well,  of  all  the  impertinent  people 
that  ever  I  did  see  ! 

Kitty.  (Outside,  R  )  Up  stairs  —  hey?  Now,  don't 
trouble  yourself.  I'll  find  the  way. 

Jenny.  That  pesky  Hannah  Long,  as  sure  as  preach- 
ing !  She's  some  to  see  the  fashions  too. 

[Enter  KITTY,    dressed  similarly  to  JENNY,  in  old-fash- 
ioned style,  made  more  ridiculous  if  possible.'] 

Kitty.  Miss  Folleigh—  Why,  Becky  Short!  You 
here? 

Jenny.  To  be  sure  I  arn :  in  the  latest  style  too. 
I've  got  the  start  of  you,  Miss  Long. 

Kitty.  Oh  !  have  you  ?  Well,  I  never  did  see  such 
a  ridiculous  dress  in  all  my  life,  never ! 

Jenny.  Well,  theu,  you'd  better  look  in  the  glass, 
and  you  will. 

K'ttty.  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  A  pretty  leader 
of  the  tan  you  are  ! 

Jenny.     Do  you  call  that  "  the  Grecian  Bend  ?  " 


88  A   GRECIAN   BEND. 

Susy.  (Aside.)  I  do  believe  they  will  quarrel. 
Dear  me  !  what  a  ridiculous  situation  !  Ladies,  I  beg 
you'll  be  quiet :  Aunt  Debby  there  has  a  very  bad 
headache. 

Aunt  Debby.  Why,  what  a  whopper  ?  I  never  had 
sich  a  thing  in  all  my  life. 

Jenny.  Won't  you  please  stand  up,  and  let  us  see 
your  "  bend?  " 

Kitty.     Do,  Miss  Folleigh  :  I'm  dying  to  see  you. 

Susy.  You're  a  couple  of  inquisitive  females.  Do 
you  suppose  I'm  going  to  make  an  exhibition  of  myself 
for  your  benefit? 

Jenny.  Law !  Now  don't  fly  up.  Congenial  sperits, 
you  know. 

Kitty.  Yes :  twin  worshippers  at  the  shrine  of 
Fashion. 

Aunt  Debby.  Twins — did  you  say?  Well,  I 
declare !  I  thought  you  were  twins,  the  minute  I  sot 
my  eyes  onto  you. 

Jenny.  (To  KITTY.)  If  you  hadn't  come  here,  I 
should  have  found  out  all  about  it. 

Kitty.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  should  have  sur- 
prised the  whole  town. 

Jenny.  You're  a  meddler !  (Flout  their  parasols  in 
each  other's  faces.) 

Kitty.     You're  a  busybody  ! 

Susy.  Oh,  dear !  what  a  ridiculous  situation ! 
Ladies,  ladies  !  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Kilty.     It's  Long. 

Jenny.     It's  Short. 

Aunt   Debby.     ( Who  has  been  hanging  round  JENNT 


A    GRECIAN   BEND.  89 

and  KITTY,  carefully  inspecting  their  dresses,  with  specta- 
cles on  her  nose.)  They're  a  couple  of  thieves  !  That 
are  is  my  bunnet.  (To  JENNY.)  I  knowd  it  the 
moment  I  sot  my  eyes  onto  it.  My  fifth  husband, 
Jotham  Snodgrass,  bought  it  for  four  dollars  and  a  half. 
And  that's  my  petticoat,  that  I  quilted  the  year  afore  I 
buried  my  fourth  husband  :  bless  his  poor  departed  soul ! 
It  was  yaller  then ;  and  when  he  died,  I  had  it  dyed 
blue.  That's  where  my  things  go  to.  Here,  Sarah  ! 
Sarah  Jane  !  Sarah  Jane  Field  !  Thieves  !  Norah, 
Norah !  Thieves  ! 

Norah.     (Outside,  B.)     Coomin',  coomiu',  mam  ! 

[Enter  NOEAH,  dressed  in  short  red  petticoat,  which  dis- 
closes a  pair  of  men's  heavy  cowhide  boots  ;  an  overskirt 
of  calico,  made  to  "  stick  out"  by  a  half-concealed  work- 
basket  of  good  size  ;  a  green  shawl  on  her  shoulders  ;  a 
wide-awake  hat  on  her  head,  adorned  with  a  peacock's 
feather  •  white  cotton  gloves  and  an  umbrella.  The 
whole  should  be  made  very  ridiculous.^ 

Susy.  (Starting  from  .so/a.)  Gracious!  What 
have  we  here  ! 

Aunt  Debby.  Land  of  liberty  sakes  !  What  a  look- 
ing critter ! 

Norah.  If  you  plase,  it's  "  the  Gracian  Bind,"  which 
Miss  Bessie  gave  me. 

All.     "  The  Grecian  Bend  !  " 

Enter  MRS.  FIELD,  B. 

Mrs.  Field.  Aunt  Debby,  what  on  earth  are  you 
yelling  so  for  ?  Gracious  !  I  didn't  know  you  had 


90  A   GRECIAN   BEND. 

company.  Why,  Norah,  what  are  you  doing  here? 
I've  been  looking  for  you  for  the  last  half  hour. 
Here's  my  washing  not  out  yet. 

Norali.  If  you  plase,  mam,  I  couldn't  help  it.  Miss 
Bessie  said  I  must  have  "  the  Gracian  Bind,"  or  I'd  lose 
my  situation. 

Mrs.  Field.     But  who  are  these  ladies? 

Aunt  Debby.  Ladies?  They're  thieves!  They've 
been  at  rny  things.  That's  my  bunnet,  and  that's  my 
shawl  and  petticoat. 

Mrs.  Field.     But  they're  friends  of  Miss  Susy. 

Susy.  Indeed  they're  not.  I  never  saw  them  before, 
and  I  never  want  to  see  them  again. 

Mrs.  Field.  Pray,  what  is  your  business  here 
then? 

Jenny.     I  came  to  help  you  wash. 

Kitty.     And  so  did  I. 

Mrs.  Field.     To  help  me  wash  ?     But  who  are  you  ? 

Jenny.     (Takes  off  her  bonnet.)     Miss  Short. 

Kitty.     (Takes  off  her  bonnet.)     Miss  Long. 

Mrs.  Field.     Jenny  !     Kitty  ! 

Aunt  Debby.     That's  the  Long  and  the  Short  of  it. 

Susy.     What!  you  girls  rigged  up. in  that  fashion? 

Jenny.     It's  the  last  new  sensation,  Susy. 

Kitty.     A  little  secret.     You  understand,  Susy. 

Mrs.  Field.  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  this  is  all 
about. 

Aunt  Debby.     It's  a  regular  mystification. 

Kitty.     Susy  understands  it  —  don't  you,  Susy? 

Susy.  I  understand  you  have  been  laughing  at  me, 
and  I'm  not  surprised  at  it ;  for,  of  all  the  contemptible 


A   GRECIAN   BEND.  91 

fashions  that  ever  were  invented,  I  thiuk  "  the  Grecian 
Bend"  exceeds  any  thing  I  ever  heard  of.  At  any  rate, 
you  shall  never  see  or  hear  any  more  of  it  during  my 
stay  here. 

Jenny.  I'm  glad  you  are  not  offended,  Susy ;  for  it 
was  only  a  little  bit  of  fun. 

Kitty.     With  a  bit  of  a  moral. 

Susy.     Ah  !  there's  a  moral  —  is  there  ? 

Kitty.  Yes  :  that  there's  but  one  step  from  the  sub- 
lime to  the  ridiculous. 

Susy.  I'll  accept  the  moral ;  but  what's  to  be  done 
with  Norah? 

JVorctA.  If  you  plase,  I'd  like  to  be  undone :  the 
thing  on  my  back  is  killing  me  iutirely. 

Enter  BESSIE,  K. 

Bessie.  Please,  mother,  may  I  have  "  a  Grecian 
Bend?"  All  the  girls  are  going  to  have  them. 

Mrs.  Field.  I'll  give  you  a  "  bend "  that  you'll 
remember,  for  taking  Norah  away  from  her  washing. 
Mercy  sakes  !  I  shall  never  get  my  washing  out.  Was 
there  ever  such  a  plague  as  a  house  full  of  girls  ! 

Aunt  Delby     Never  !     My  sixth  husband  — 

Mrs.  Field.  Oh  !  never  mind  him.  Who's  going  to 
help  me  with  the  wash?  I  shall  never  get  the  wash 
out.  Who  will  help  me? 

Kitty.     I  will,  mother. 

Jenny.     And  I,  aunt. 

Susy.  And  I ;  for  I  think  it  would  be  very  useful 
to  me. 

All.     Useful ! 


92  A   GRECIAN    BEND. 

Susy.  Yes  :  for,  in  the  first  place,  I  shall  learn  to 
wash  ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  I'm  convinced  it  is  just 
the  exercise  necessary  to  prepare  me  to  bear  with  resig- 
nation, when  I  reach  home,  the  latest  infliction  of 
fashion,  —  "A  Grecian  Bend." 

SITUATIONS. 

k       BESSIE,    NOKAH,    JIBS.    F.,       KITTY,    JE3WY,    BUST.      I* 


SNOW-BOUND. 


AN  ENTERTAINMENT  FOR  FOUR  PERSONS. 


CHARACTERS. 


BROWN, 

JONES, 

•  Travellers. 
SMITH, 

Miss  ROBINSON, 


COSTUMES. 

BROWN,  ) 

JONES,    >  Overcoats,  slouched  hats,  comforters,  and  thick  gloves. 

SMITH,   ) 

Miss  ROBINSON,  old-fashioned  brown  cloak,  "  pumpkin-hood." 


SCENE.  — Parlor  of  an  Inn.  Grate,  with  fire  burning,  c. 
Chairs,  R.  and  L.  of  Grate.  Piano,  L.  Chair  and 
small  Table,  R. 

Brown.     (Outside,  R.)     Here!     Landlord,  chamber- 
maid, boots. 

Jones.     (Outside,  R.)    Boots,  chambermaid,  landlord  ! 
Here! 

93 


94  SNOW-BOUND. 

Brown.  Humbug!  I  tell  you  this  is  my  room,  first 
to  the  right.  *  •  » 

Jones.  No,  sir!  Mine:  positively  and  unequivocally 
mine  !  If  a  man  hasn't  got  any  rights  — 

Brown.  (Enters  R.,  followed  by  JONES.)  Oh,  bother 
your  rights  !  Humbug  !  Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to 
stand  shivering  in  that  entry,  when  there's  a  good  rousing 
fire  and  comfortable  quarters  here?  No,  sir. 

Jones.  Now,  look  here  !  Business  is  business,  and 
fun  is  fun.  Here  we  are,  after  a  hard  day's  ride  in  a 
blustering  storm,  stuck  fast  —  positively  snow-bound,  at 
a  wayside  inn,  with  a  strong  probability  of  being  so  for 
the  next  three  days. 

Broicn.  Well,  what  do  I  care  about  that?  Blast  the 
storm,  confound  the  inn,  and  bother  you  ! 

Jones.  But  I  don't  choose  to  be  bothered.  I  got  out 
of  the  coach  first.  I  engaged  the  best  room :  I  am 
directed  to  this  — 

Brown.  And  here  you  are.  But  I  tell  you  what,  sir  : 
there's  but  one  decent  room  in  the  house  ;  and  if  you  are 
the  man  to  selfishly  secure  the  most  comfortable  quarters, 
to  the  exclusion  of  your  fellow-travellers,  to  leave  your 
companions  out  in  the  cold,  I  am  not  the  man  to  selfishly 
see  you  do  it.  So  here  I  stay.  (Sits  R.  of  fire.)  I've 
had  a  pretty  good  blowing  from  the  storm  outside  :  if 
you  can  beat  that,  why,  blow  away. 

Jones.  Now,  isn't  this  pleasant?  This  comes  of 
attempting  a  journey  in  that  played-out  vehicle  of  loco- 
motion, the  stage-coach,  mixing  one's-self  with  nobody 
knows  who.  Look  here,  sir,  this  is  my  room:  you'll 
oblige  me  by  leaving  it  quietly. 


SNOW-BOUND.  95 

Brown.  No,  sir  :  "  My  foot  is  on  my  native  hearth, 
my  name's  Micaber." 

Jones.  Oh,  murder  !  Your  foot's  on  my  corns.  Look 
here,  Mic-what's-your-name :  there's  quite  enough  of 
that.  (Sits  L.  of  fire.)  Now,  come,  do  go,  that's  a 
good  fellow.  The  landlord's  got  a  nice  room  on  the 
next  floor. 

Brown.  Has  he?  Then  you  take  it:  you've  higher 
ideas  than  I  have. 

Jones.  Now,  this  is  too  bad.  Is  it  not  enough  that 
I've  been  jostled  all  day  in  a  stage-coach  ?  — 

Brown.  I  should  say  it  was  quite  enough.  Confound 
all  stage-coaches  !  say  I. 

Jones.  And  confound  all  bothering  travellers,  who 
get.  into  other  people's  room  ! 

Brown.     Confound  them,  with  all  my  heart. 

Jones.  Oh,  dear!  Can't  I  get  rid  of  him?  Must  I 
endure  your  delightful  society  for  the  next  three  days? 

Brown.  Three  days !  If  you  get  out  of  this  in  a 
week  you'll  be  lucky. 

Jones.     A  week  !     I  can  never  stand  that. 

Brown.  You  don't  look  as  though  you  could  stand 
much  of  any  thing. 

Jones.  Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?  Isn't  it 
enough  that  I've  been  jostled  all  day  — 

Brown.  Oh,  pooh,  pooh  !  don't  ride  over  that  road 
again. 

Hiss  Robinson.  (Outside,  n.)  Well,  I  do  declare,  I'm 
so  thankful  to  get  near  a  fire  again. 

Jones.     Heavens  !  there's  that  old  woman  coming  here. 

Brown.  Confound  her !  Haven't  we  got  rid  of  her 
yet? 


96  SNOW-BOUND. 

Enter  Miss  ROBINSON,  R. 

Miss  R.  Oh,  lud  !  Oh,  dear  !  I'm  eenamost  gone. 
Do  somebody  ketch  me,  quick.  I'm  going  to  faint,  sartin 
sure. 

Brown.     Here,  you,  why  don't  you  catch  her? 

Jones.     Catch  me,  that's  all. 

Miss  E.     Do  run  and  git  me  some  camphire. 

Brown.     Come,  come,  old  chap,  run  for  the  camphire. 

Jones.     No,  I  thank  you  :  I  prefer  this  fire. 

Miss  R.  Ain't  anybody  going  to  catch  me?  Well, 
if  this  ain't  human  nater,  right  eout  and  eout.  Let  a 
poor  lone  woman,  eenamost  tired  to  death,  stand  here, 
and  not  even  offer  her  a  cheer. 

Jones.  But,  I  tell  you,  you  don't  belong  here :  this 
room's  engaged. 

Miss  It.  Engaged !  Well,  p'r'aps  I  am,  and  p'r'aps 
I  amn't.  I'd  like  to  know  what  business  that  is  of 
yours  ? 

Brown.  The  old  lady  is  a  little  hard  of  hearing. 
Come,  come,  be  civil,  and  give  her  your  chair. 

Jones.     Your  corner  is  the  warmest :  give  her  yours. 

Miss  R.  Ain't  you  going  to  let  me  sit  down  by  the 
fire,  neither?  Here  I've  travelled  all  day,  and  I'm 
eenamost  froze. 

Jones.  Oh,  come,  come  !  go  to  the  landlord  :  he'll  put 
you  somewhere  on  the  next  floor,  or  give  you  a  room  in 
the  attic. 

Miss  R.  Rheumatic !  Yes,  well,  I  should  say  so. 
I've  got  'em  drefful  bad.  You  don't  know  what  a  poor 
sufferin'  creeter  I  am. 


SNOW-BOUND.  97 

Brown.    You  don't  suffer  any  more  than  I  do  at  present. 

Jones.  Now,  my  good  woman,  do  make  yourself  com- 
fortable somewhere  else. 

Miss  R.  Make  myself  comfortable?  Well,  that's 
kind  of  you,  anyhow,  and  I'll  jest  take  a  cheer,  and  toast 
my  feet  right  here.  (  Wheels  a  chair  to  fire,  and  sits  with 
back  to  audience.)  It  seems  to  me  you  are  taking  a 
leetle  too  much  of  the  fire. 

Jones.  It  seems  to  me  this  is  a  remarkably  cool  way 
to  take  possession  of  my  room. 

Brown.     Your  room  !     I  like  that.     Mine,  you  mean. 

Jones.  No,  sir  :  mine  (seizes  poker)  ;  and  I  am  pre- 
pared to  defend  it  against  all  intruders. 

Broiun.  Oh,  you  are !  (Seizes  brush.)  Well,  two 
can  play  at  that  game. 

Miss  R.  Massy  sakes  !  I  do  believe  there's  going  to 
be  a  massacree  here. 

Smith.  (Outside,  R.)  That's  right,  landlord.  Fish, 
flesh,  and  fowl.  Cook  them  all.  "I  am  as  hungry  as 
the  sea,  and  could  digest  as  much."  We're  good  for  a 
week  here  ;  so  set  your  ovens  roaring,  your  spits  turning, 
and  your  tea-kettle  singing.  Ha,  ha  !  this  is  fun. 

Jones.     Now,  there's  our  noisy  fellow-traveller  ! 

Brown.     Yes,  and  coming  this  way,  sure. 

Enter  SMITH,  R. 

Smith.  Hallo  !  here  you  are.  I've  been  looking  for 
you.  Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Brown.     Matter  !     I  should  think  you'd  ask  that. 

Jones.     Shipwrecked  in  a  snow-storm,  —  that's  what's 
the  matter. 
7 


98  SNOW-BOUND. 

Smith  (taking  off  his  hat,  coat,  and  gloves).  Well, 
here  we  are,  a  coach-load  of  distressed  travellers,  snow- 
bound, dumped  at  the  door  of  a  nice  little  inn. 

Brown.     Yes  :  we're  nicely  taken  in. 

Smith.  Come,  ain't  you  going  to  throw  off  your  over- 
coats and  wrappers?  We're  good  for  a  week  here. 

Jones.     Good  for  a  week  ?     Thunder  ! 

Brown.     A  week  !     Just  my  luck  ! 

Smith.  Yes,  a  week.  There  hasn't  been  such  a 
storm  in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant ;  and  it's 
coming  faster  and  faster.  Isn't  it  fun  ? 

Jones.     Fun  !     I  don't  see  much  fun  about  it. 

Brown.  I  confess  I  am  unable  to  see  the  precise  spot 
where  the  laugh  comes  in. 

Jones.     It's  outrageous ! 

Brown.     It's  diabolical ! 

Smith.  Oh,  come  !  this  won't  do,  now.  Don't  get  in  a 
passion.  It  can't  be  helped,  you  know :  the  snow  would 
come  down,  the  coach  couldn't  come  on,  and  so  here  we 
are. 

Brown.     Well,  you  do  take  it  cool. 

Smith.  Of  course  I  do.  If  the  ride  we've  taken  to- 
day wouldn't  make  a  man  cool,  then  I've  little  faith  in 
the  cooling  properties  of  snow  and  ice. 

Jones.  But,  I  tell  you,  I  shall  be  ruined.  I  must  be 
ten  miles  from  here  this  very  night. 

Brown.  And  so  must  I.  A  very  particular  engage- 
ment. There  must  be  some  way  to  get  out  of  this. 

Smith.  Yes,  there  is  one.  Shovel  yourself  out.  It's 
no  use,  fellow-travellers  :  here  we  are,  and  here  we  must 
stay  ;  so  throw  care  to  the  winds.  We'll  bid  farewell  to 


SNOW-BOUND.  99 

the  hollow,  heartless  world,  and,  in  our  comfortable  quar- 
ters, eat,  drink,  and  be  merry. 

Jones.  Oli,  yes!  this  may  be  all  very  well  for  you. 
You  evidently  like  being  "out  in  the  cold." 

Smith.  '•  Out  in  the  cold  !  "  Where's  that?  A  man 
can  never  be  "  out  iu  the  cold  "  when  he  carries  a  warm 
heart,  a  cheerful  temper,  and  an  earnest  purpose. 

Brown.     Humbug ! 

Jones.     Bosh  ! 

Smith.  Oh  !  come,  come,  fellow-travellers,  don't  give 
up  so.  Why,  when  we  started  this  morning,  you  were  as 
gay  and  as  jolly  as  schoolboys  on  a  frolic.  You  remem- 
ber it,  don't  you? 

When  the  sky  was  blue  above,  ami  the  snow  was  white  below, 
The  clear,  cool  breezes  blowing,  and  our  hearts  were  all  aglow, — 

we  were  all  on  top,  —  sent  the  driver  inside  to  talk  to  the 
old  lady.  I  took  the  reins,  and  off  we  started. 

Brown.     Nearly  upsetting  us  the  first  thing. 

Jones.     We  did  spin  along  tolerably  fast,  though. 

Smith.  Spin?  We  flew.  Up  the  hill  and  down  again, 
across  the  bridge,  and  along  the  road,  a  clear  stretch  of 
three  miles,  with  our  horses  on  the  keen  jump.  We 
passed  every  thing  on  the  road. 

Brown.     Yes,  frightened  all  the  old  women. 

Jones.  Upset  three  farmers  and  a  milkman,  and  scat- 
tered a  crowd  of  boys  in  all  directions. 

Smith.  Then  the  driver  stuck  his  head  out  of  the 
window,  and  shouted  — 

Brown.  The  rival  coach  is  coming  up.  That's  where 
I  took  the  whip.  (Jumps  up.) 


100  SNOW-BOUND. 

Jones.  And  I  commenced  to  yell.  (Jumps  up.}  Didn't 
I  yell? 

Smith.  Didn't  you,  though?  But  we  let  the  rival 
coach  come  up. 

Brown.     'Till  the  leaders  were  almost  on  the  rack. 

Smith.     And  then  I  gave  them  the  reins. 

Brown.     And  I  the  whip. 

Jones.     And  I  the  yell. 

Smith.  (Imitates  driving.')  Now,  my  beauties,  go 
aloii-;  there  ;  show  your  training. 

Brown.     Hy,  hy  ! 

Jones.     Hy,  hy  ! 

Smith.  Lively,  now,  Dobbin.  Show  yourself,  old 
Jack.  Step  out,  Dexter.  Lively,  now,  lively  ! 

Brown.     Hy,  hy  ! 

Jones.     Hy,  hy  ! 

Smith.  And  then  they  went  to  work.  Away,  mile 
after  mile,  and  the  rival  coach  — 

Brown.     The  rival  coach  was  far  behind. 

Jones.  Yes,  on  her  beam-ends,  in  a  gully.  Wa'n't 
it  jolly? 

Smith.  And  then  the  storm  came  on,  and  here  we 
are,  snow-bound. 

Brown.  Yes,  confound  it,  snow-bound.  (Goes  lack 
to  chair.) 

Jones.  Dead  stuck.  It's  too  bad.  (Goes  back  to 
chair.) 

Smith.  Now,  don't  say  that.  It's  the  same  snow  we 
pped  over  so  merrily  this  morning.  There's  a  little  more 
of  it,  to  be  sure  ;  but  then,  you  know,  you  can't  have 
too  much  of  a  good  thing.  So  what's  the  use  of  fretting  ? 


SNOW-BOUND.  101 

We've  nice,  comfortable  quarters  here  ;  the  landlord  is  a 
whole-souled  fellow,  who  will  let  us  do  just  as  we  please. 
So  let's  be  jolly,  laugh  at  the  storm,  and,  like  true 
philosophers,  make  the  best  of  it.  We've  all  lost  some- 
thing by  the  delay,  and  I'll  just  tell  you  what  I've  lost. 
I  had  a  letter,  three  days  ago,  from  a  friend  of  mine 
who  is  stopping  some  ten  miles  from  here,  making 
sketches  of  snow-scenes,  I  believe.  He's  got  a  little 
lonesome,  and  wanted  me  to  come  and  see  him.  He  had 
invited  a  nice  little  party  :  we  were  to  have  a  masquer- 
ade, private  theatricals,  bring  out  a  new  piece,  and  have 
a  good  time  generally.  I  started  off  this  morning,  got 
too  late  for  the  train,  as  usual,  and  took  the  stage-coach 
to  go  to  my  friend  Robinson's  — 

Brown.     Robinson!     Not  Tom? 

Smith.     Exactly. 

Brown  (coming  down  front).  Well,  this  is  queer.  I 
was  bound  for  the  same  place.  I've  all  the  costumes  for 
the  masquerade.  I  was  to  assist  in  getting  up  the  theat- 
ricals — 

Jones  (coming  down  front).  And  I  was  to  lead  the 
orchestra,  —  one  piano  and  a  bass  drum. 

Brown.     You ! 

Jones.     Yes :  I  was  bound  for  the  same  place. 

Smith.  Well,  this  is  capital :  all  bound  for  the  same 
place,  and  all  snow-bound  here.  We  can't  go,  you  know, 
so  let's  make  ourselves  comfortable.  We  should  have 
become  sociable  at  Tom's  :  let's  be  so  here.  We  can 
entertain  each  other. 

Brown.     So  we  can  ;  that's  capital. 

Jones.     An  idea  worth  entertaining. 


102  SNOW-BOUND. 

Smith.  In  spite  of  the  storm,  we'll  be  gay  and  — 
what  is  the  song? 

Broicn.  (Sings.')  "  Gay  and  happy,  gay  and  happy, 
we'll  he  gay  and  happy  still." 

Smith.     That's  it.     Off  with  your  wrappers. 

Brown.  Here  goes.  (Throws  off  coat  and  hat.}  I'll 
do  my  hest  for  the  entertainment  of  the  party. 

Jones.     And  so  will  I.      (Throws  off  coat  and  hat.*) 

Smith.  And  I.  And  who  knows  hut  what,  in  en- 
deavoring to  entertain  ourselves,  we  may  entertain  angels 
unawares?  By-the-by,  speaking  of  angels,  there's  only 
one  thing  necessary  to  make  us  perfectly  happy. 

Jones  and  Brown.     What's  that  ? 

Smith.  A  presiding  genius,  one  of  those  fairy  mortals 
whose  presence  beautifies  a  desert,  and  whose  smiles  can 
make  any  spot  on  earth  the  dearest ;  for,  where  she  is, 
'tis  always  home. 

Miss  Robinson.      (Sings.) 

"  'Mitl  pleasures  and  palaces,  thoujrh  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  hmnMe,  there's  no  place  like  home." 

(Then  rises,  throws  off  cloalc  and  hood,  and  appears  in 
evening  dress.) 

Smith.     Well,  well :  here's  a  masquerade  ! 

Brown.      My  dear  madam,  do  let  me  offer  you  a  chair. 

Jones.     Let  me  take  your  cloak. 

SJiss  R.  Your  pardon,  gentlemen  :  I  fear  I  intrude. 
The  landlord  will,  no  doubt,  be  happy  to  show  me  a 
room  in  the  attic. 

Brown.     Ah,  madam,  if  we  had  suspected  1 

Jones.     Which  we  didn't,  I  assure  you. 


SNOW-BOUND.  103 

Miss  B.  Ah,  gentlemen,  I  fear  your  politeness  is 
governed  by  age.  But  I'll  forgive  you.  Perhaps  I 
should  explain  the  meaning  of  this  masquerade.  My 
brother,  the  gentleman  to  whom  you  have  just  alluded, 
wrote  me  while  I  was  visiting  a  relative,  that  he  should 
expect  me  home  to-night,  to  assist  him  in  entertaining 
company  which  he  had  invited.  I  was  to  have  had  a 
protector  in  travelling ;  but  at  the  last  moment  he  found 
it  impossible  to  leave.  Knowing  my  brother  would  need 
my  services,  I  determined  to  start  without  him,  and,  that 
I  might  be  unmolested,  adopted  the  disguise  which  I 
have  just  thrown  off.  Gentlemen,  like  yon,  I  am  snow- 
bound. It  would  have  been  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to 
have  entertained  you  at  my  brother's  :  will  you  allow  me 
to  hope  that  I  shall  be  no  intruder  here,  but  may  be 
allowed  to  assist  you  in  your  endeavors  to  amuse  and 
entertain  each  other? 

Smith.  Madam,  Miss  Robinson,  allow  me,  in  behalf 
of  the  proprietors  of  this  establishment  and  my  fellow- 
travellers,  to  bid  you  a  hearty  welcome,  and  to  assure 
you  that  during  your  stay  you  will  be  a  guest  whom  we 
shall  be  proud  and  happy  to  entertain  and  protect. 

Broion.  All  of  which  is  heartily  seconded  by  yours, 
truly. 

Smith.  Allow  me  to  present  my  friends,  here.  Miss 
Robinson,  Mr.  ,  Mr. 

Brown.     Brown. 

Smith.     Mr.  Brown  ;  and  this  is  Mr. Mr. 

Jones.     Jones. 

Smith.     Mr.  Jones  ;  and  myself,  Mr.  Smith. 

Miss  E.  Gentlemen,  delighted  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance. 


104  SNOW-BOUND 

Jones.     But  ain't  we  going  to  have  some  supper  ? 

Smith.  In  just  half  au  hour.  The  landlord  has 
assured  me  that  we  shall  have  the  best  in  the  house,  as 
soon  as  it  can  be  prepared.  While  you  are  waiting  sup- 
per, suppose  you  try  that  piano.  It  looks  well,  and,  I 
have  no  doubt,  can  sound  its  own  praises.  Mr.  Jones,  a 
song  will  be  very  acceptable. 

3fiss  R.     Oh,  do  sing,  Mr.  Jones  ! 

Jones.  I'll  do  my  best ;  but,  remember,  I've  left  my 
notes  at  home. 

Song,  MR.  JONES. 

Brown.     That's  good.     Give  us  another. 

Jones.  Suppose,  by  way  of  variety,  you  try  your 
musical  voice. 

Brown.  Oh,  certainly  !  if  there's  any  thing  here  I  can 
sing.  Ah  !  here's  my  old  friend,  "  The  Bashful  Young 
Gentleman."  How  will  that  do? 

Jones.  Capitally.  Let's  hear  from  "-The  Bashful 
Young  Gentleman." 

Song,  MR.  BROWN. 

Smith.     Good.     Give  us  another? 
Brown.     Suppose  you  try  your  voice  ? 
Smith.     I  don't  sing. 
All.     You  don't  sing  ! 
Smith.     I  don't  sing. 
Brown.     What  can  you  do? 

Smith.  Not  much  of  any  thing.  Yes,  I'll  tell  you  a 
story. 

Recitation,  MR.  SMITH.* 

*  Of  course  it  is  optional  with  the  characters  to  sing  or  recite. 


SNOW-BOUND.  105 

And  now,  Miss  Robinson,  as  we  of  the  masculine  gender 
have  tried  our  best  to  entertain  you,  we  trust  that  you 
will  favor  us  — 

Miss  H.     With  all  my  heart. 

Song,  Miss  ROBINSON. 

brown.     Now,  let's  go  over  it  again. 

Smith.  Hold  on.  Variety's  the  spice  of  life.  It  has 
just  occurred  to  me  that  I  have  in  my  right-hand  pocket 
the  manuscript  of  the  new  play,  which  was  to  have  been 
performed  at  our  friend  Robinson's. 

Brown.     Good  !  read  it. 

Jones.     Yes,  let's  have  it. 

Miss  R.     "  The  play,  the  play's  the  thing."    Do  read  it  ! 

Smith.     Read  it !   we'll  do  better  than  that :  we'll  act  it. 

Brown.  A.  good  idea :  let's  form  ourselves  into  a 
dramatic  company.  I'll  be  the  scenic  artist. 

Smith.  So  you  shall.  Mr.  Jones  and  Miss  Robinson 
shall  look  after  the  music  (sits  the  table,  c.),  and  I'll 
copy  the  parts.  So  let.'s  to  work  (takes  paper  from 
pocket).  Here's  the  manuscript:  "  Alouzo  the  Brave 
and  the  Fair  Imogene." 

Brown.     Ah  !     We  shall  want  a  castle  for  that. 

Smith.     Yes  :  and  a  trap. 

Brown.  I'm  not  up  to  trap.  Hallo,  here's  one  right 
under  our  feet ! 

Smith.     Then  go  to  work.     I'll  copy  the  parts. 

Brown.  Now,  what  shall  I  do  for  a  castle?  I'll 
make  a  voyage  of  discovery.  (Exit,  R.) 

Smith.  Now  to  work.  (Sits  at  table  and  takes  pencil.) 
Alouzo,  Imogene,  Baron  Briumigem,  Baron  Boz, 


106  SNOW-BOUND. 

J//.ss  E.     Oh  !   this  will  do  capitally  :  try  that. 
(Miss  R.  sings,  MR.  J.  plays  very  loud.     If  the  piano  is 
not  on  the  stage,  let  both  sing.) 

Smith.  Oh,  come,  my  dear  friends  !  I  can  never  write 
if  you  make  such  a  uoise  as  that.  « 

Enter  BROWN,  R.,  with  a  clothes-horse. 

Brown.     That's  the  best  I  can  do  for  a  castle. 

Smith.  That  will  do  capitally.  "Act  1,  Scene  1: 
Castle  Klaushatis,  with  a  view  of  Mt.  Washington  in  the 
distance." 

Brown.  Mount  Washington !  Where  will  you  get 
that? 

Smith.  (Pointing  to  picture  at  back.)  Well,  there's 
Washington,  about  to  mount.  We  shall  have  to  make 
that  do. 

Brown.     What  an  a-mount  of  imagination  you  have  ! 

Smith.  Castle,  L.,  Imogene  discovered  at  window  of 
Castle.  (Miss  R.  sings,  JONES  plays,  BKOWN  hammers.) 
My  dear  friends,  don't  make  such  a  noise  :  u  Ye  cruel 
fates,  that  unrelenting  play."  (Miss  R.  sings,  JONES 
plays,  BROWN  hammers,  till  curtain  falls.  SMITH,  jump- 
ing up.)  Oh,  confound  it !  I  can't  write  with  such  a  noise 
as  that.  Ladies,  Miss  Robinson  ;  gentlemen,  Mr.  Jones, 
Mr.  Brown,  will  you  oblige  me  — 

(Curtain  falls,  with  music  in  fall  blast.) 


SNOW-BOUND.  107 

ALONZO   THE  BRAVE  AND  THE   FAIR 
IMOGENE. 


CHARACTERS. 

BARON  BRUMAGEM,  manager  of  the  "  Fair  "  (Mr.  Jones). 

ALONZO,  sometimes  called  "  the  brave,"  sometimes  "  the  green  " 
(Mr.  Brown). 

IMOGENE,  sweet  sixteen,  as  may  be  seen  (Miss  Robinson). 

BARON  Boz,  the  baron  all  covered  with  jewels  and  gold  (Mr. 
Smith). 

COSTUMES   FOR   THE  PLAY. 

BARON.  Long  brown  shirt,  white  tights,  brown  shoes,  white  wig 
and  beard,  cap  and  cane. 

ALONZO.  Act  1,  White  shape  dress  (doublet  and  trunks),  white 
tights,  white  shoes,  cap  and  feathers,  moustache.  Act  2,  armor-suit. 

BARON  Boz.  Blue  shape  dress,  white  tights,  blue  shoes,  wig 
and  beard  to  imitate  Charles  Dickens. 

IMOGENE.     Rich  dress. 

The  costumes  and  wigs  for  this  piece  can  be  procured  in  Boston, 
of  Mrs.  M.  A.  Wilson,  Costumer,  No.  52  Chambers  Street.  The 
"  Castle,"  and  other  pieces  of  scenery,  of  D.  A.  Story,  No  72  Sud- 
bury  Street. 

ACT    I. 

Exterior  of  Castle  Klamliaus. 

SCENE,  same  as  first,  with  stage  aU  c/ear,  and  a  castle,  L., 
made  by  covering  a  large  clothes-horse,  painting  it  on 
one  side  to  represent  a  castle,  on  the  other  a  door  and 
window,  with  painted  sign,  "  ORIENTAL  TEA  COM- 
PANY :  "  a  practical  window  to  open. 


108  SNOW-BOUND. 

(IMOGENE  at  the  window  in  castle.) 

Im.     Ye  cruel  fates,  that  unrelenting  play 
On  earth's  fair  lawn  your  frolicsome  croquet, 
Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  forlorn  maid, 
Locked  up  all  day,  because  her  pa's  afraid 
She'll  make  tafaux-pas,  her  fond  sire  will  euchre, 
And  wed  for  love,  and  not  for  filthy  lucre. 

Ah,  me  !  was  ever  maid  in  such  distress  ? 
I  can't  get  out  to  purchase  a  new  dress  ; 
And  silks  and  satins  are  so  very  low, 
It  is  a  shame  I  can't  a-shopping  go. 
A  stern  old  Roman,  if  he  is  my  pa, 
Why  does  he  seek  my  pleasures  thus  to  mar? 
To  be  like  him  I'm  sure  I  ne'er  intend : 
I'm  more  inclined  to  have  a  Grecian  Bend. 
These  gilded  bars  and  bonds  I  can't  abear : 
I'd  rather  have  a  gilt  band  for  my  hair. 
Oh,  for  some  gallant  knight !  —  handsome,  of  course, 
With  lance  and  shield,  upon  a  noble  horse, 
To  free  this  luckless  maid  from  her  vile  prison : 
How  gladly  would  I  say  rny  life  was  his'n. 

Song,  IMOGENE.     Air,  "  Kissing  at  the  Gate" 

Oh,  dear !  I  once  did  huve  a  beau : 

A  gallant  knight  was  he, 
Who  with  the  army  marched  away, 

And  crossed  the  stormy  sea. 
He  left  me  sadly  here  alone, 

And  went  in  search  of  fame: 
A  tall  and  handsome  cavalier, 

Alonzo  was  his  name. 

Alonzo  was  his  name,  Alonzo  was  his  name; 
A  tall  and  handsome  cavalier,  Alonzo  was  his  name. 


SNOW-BOUND.  109 

Ah,  me !  I  often  sigh  for  him, 

And  wish  him  at  my  side: 
It  is  so  grand  to  have  a  beau 

To  with  you  walk  or  ride; 
To  bid  him  come  or  go  at  will, 

His  whole  attention  claim. 
Ah!  such  a  beau  I  once  did  have: 

Alonzo  was  his  name. 

Alonzo  was  his  name,  Alonzo  was  his  name; 
A  tall  and  handsome  cavalier,  Alonzo  was  his  name. 

Now  I  feel  better.     Dear  me  !  here  comes  pa  : 

I'm  quite  resolved  to  have  a  family  jar, 

Proclaim  for  woman's  rights,  preserve  my  station, 

If  necessary,  make  a  grand  oration.  (Exit.) 

Enter  BARON  BBUMAGEM,  R. 

Baron.     Now,  by  my  castle-walls,  this  news,  if  true, 
Is  inorterfying,  and  makes  me  feel  blue. 
Down  at  the  "public,"  with  mine  host  I  sat, 
To  qutiff  my  ale,  and  have  my  usual  chat, 
When,  with  a  grin  most  horrible  to  see, 
A  lad  slipped  in  this  telegram  to  me  : 
"  To  Baron  Brumagem,  rich,  hale,  and  balmy,  — 
The  king  has  drafted  you  into  his  army." 

The  king  be .     There's  nobody  about. 

If  walls  have  ears,  just  let  'em  'ear  it  out. 
The  king  be  blowed.     I'm  driven  to  a  corner : 
Let  him  protest,  this  draft  I  will  not  honor. 
He  hales  me  hale.     There'll  be  a  hail-storm  here, 
When  from  my  h'ale  he  drags  me  to  my  bier. 
And  must  I  leave  you,  my  ancestral  halls, 
To  pine  and  moulder  when  my  country  calls? 


110  SXOW-BODND. 

Not  as  I  knows  on.     Young  ideas  may  shoot, 
But  not  I,  dears,  while  there's  a  substitute. 

Song,  BARON.     Air,  "  Walking  down  Broadway." 

The  toughest  thing  in  war,  — 

And  no  one  dare  say  nay,  — 
In  column  or  platoon, 

Is  marching  all  the  day. 
My  substitute  shall  go, 

And  fight  or  run  away; 
But  I  prefer  my  ease 

To  marching  all  the  day. 

(Speaking.)  Oh,  no  !  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  The  idea 
of  Baron  Brumagem,  with  knapsack  on  shoulder  and 
musket  on  his  back,  — 

Marching  all  the  day,  the  hot  and  dusty  day: 

The  0.  K.  thing,  I  think,  is  not  marching  all  the  day. 

Let  young  blades  fight  and  run, 

And  all  the  glory  win: 
I  am  too  old  a  chick 

To  be  so  taken  in. 
Where  cannon-balls  fly  fast, 

The  glory  does  not  pay 
For  all  the  pains  you  get 

In  marching  all  the  day. 

(Speaking.)  No,  'twould  never  do  for  me.  If  I  must 
be  a  soldier,  I'll  join  the  Home  Guard  ;  for,  in  that  Anciejit 
and  Honorable  company,  there's  no  — 

Marching  all  the  day,  the  hot  and  dusty  day: 

The  0.  K.  thing,  I  think,  is  not  marching  all  the  day. 

Im.     (At   window.)     Why,    pa,    so    soon    returned? 
What  has  gone  wrong? 


SNOW-BOUND.  Ill 

Bar.     Why  ask  you  that?     I  told  you  in  my  song. 

Im.     The  import  of  your  soug  I  scarce  could  hear  : 
You  sing  so  badly  out  of  tune,  my  dear. 

Bar.     And  so  you  importune  me.     Bah  !   I  say. 

Im.      I  tear  you've  seen  too  many  bars  to-day. 
Do  let  me  out,  that  is  a  parent  dear. 

Bar.     To  keep  you  in  I  pay  a  dear  rent  here. 

Im.     To  feel  the  fresh,  sweet  airs  upon  my  brow. 

Bar.     My  sweet,  I  think  you've  airs  too  many  now. 
Young  woman,  no  !     To  guard  you  well  I'm  bound : 
In  me  a  fond  and  loving  sire  you've  found. 
Kind  and  indulgent,  I'm  your  legal  keeper : 
Gals  should  be  kept  at  home,  it's  so  much  cheaper. 

Im.     Now,  dear  papa. 

Bar.  Shut  up.   r 

Im.  Do  let  me  out,  I  pray. 

Bar.     If  I  let  out,  there'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay. 

(Drops  cane.") 

I'm  coming  in,  so  stop  your  horrid  clatter,  — 
Lay  out  that  cold  fowl  on  the  pewter  platter. 

(Unlocks  door  of  castle.) 

Im.     O  pa,  your  cane  !     You've  left  your  cane  ! 
Bar.  Dear  me, 

What  canes  are  good  for,  I'm  not  able  to  see : 

(IMOGEXE  slips  out  of  door,  and  slips  behind  it.) 
I'm  coming  in,  just  mind  what  you're  about. 

(Exit  into  castle,  IMOGENE  claps  to  door  and  locks  it.) 
Im.     If  there  are  callers,  pray  say  I've  stepped  out. 


112  .  SNOW-BOUND. 

Bar.     (Inside.)     Come,  come,  young  woman,  have  no 
joking,  dear. 

Im.     Jo  King !  there's  no  young  man   of  that   name 
here. 

Bar.     O  Immy!  immolate  your  father  thus? 

Im.     I  have  no  farther  use  for  you  :  don't  make  a  fuss. 

Bar.     Open  that  door. 

Im.  It's  locked. 

Bar.  You've  got  the  key. 

Im.     I  mean  to  keep  it  too. 

Bar.  We'll  see,  we'll  see. 

This  is  rebellion. 

Im.  This  is  woman's  right, 

When  teasing  fails,  to  take  up  arms  and  fight. 

Bar.     Oh,  dear  !  you've  listened  to  Geo.  Francis  Train. 

Im.     I  have,  and  mean  to  go  and  list  again. 
You'll  find  your  cold  fowl  on  the  pewter  laid : 
I  won't  go  far,  so  don't  you  be  afraid. 

Bar.     Cold-hearted  chicken,  thus  your  sire  to  fret : 
Where's  that  cold  fowl  ?  I  will  be  happy  yet. 
(Duet,   BARON  and  IMOGENE.      Air,  "  The  Last  Hose 
of  Summer.") 

'Tis  the  last  chick  of  Christmas, 

Left  sadly  alone ; 
All  its  plump  little  fellows 

Devoured  and  gone: 
No  vestige  of  turkey, 

No  wild-goose  is  nigh; 
But  this  sad  little  chicken 

Forsaken  doth  lie. 

Im.     So  fair  and  foul  a  day  I  have  not  seen : 
Oh  !  if  I  could  but  meet  Alonzo  Green, 


SNOW-BOUND.  113 

We'd  hie  together  to  the  Skating  Rink, 
Of  pleasure's  fount  to  take  an  ice-cold  drink. 
Now  isn't  that  pretty?  that's  a  metaphor: 
If  I  don't  meet  him  soon,  there'll  be  a  thaw. 
Off  to  the  wars  so  long,  I'm  very  sure 
There  never  was  so  long  a  time  before. 
Good  gracious  !  who's  that  coming  down  this  way? 
'Tis  a  poor  minstrel,  wandering  all  the  day, 
.One  of  a  Band,  that's  organized  to  slay 
Music  (not  Gilmore's)  in  a  cruel  way. 
Though  of  return  they  have  a  ready  knack, 
And  should  be  popular,  tho'  so  Of- fen-bach, 
His  notes  won't  pass,  so  aside  I'll  slip, 
Or  he'll  post  here,  and  I  must  then  post  scrip. 

Enter  ALONZO,   R.,   disguised  in   a  domino,  turning  the 
spit  of  an  old-fashioned  tin-kitchen  hanging  from  his  neck. 

(Song,  ALONZO.     Air,  "  Gaily  the  Troubadour.") 

Daily  the  organ-man 

Eoarns  through  the  streets, 
Begging  a  nickel 

Of  all  that  he  meets : 
Singing  "  From  Hoveltine, 

Hither  I  flees, 
Lady  dear,  lady  dear, 

One  nickel,  please." 

Daily  the  organ-man 

Sad  turns  away, 
With  the  rude  throng, 

That  never  will  pay: 
Singing,  "  Your  airs  are  bad, 

You're  out  of  tune, 
Organ-man,  organ- man, 

Go  away  soon." 


114  SNOW-BOUND. 

The  wheel  of  fortune  is  a  gay  machine, 

No  greater  novelty  was  ever  seen  : 

Like  Paddy's  pig,  it  has  a  curious  knack 

Of  getting  forward  oft  by  turning  back. 

It's  back  on  me ;  for,  turn  it  as  I  will, 

It  leaves  me  where  I  started,  standing  still. 

Back  from  the  wars,  as  poor  as  when  I  went, 

To  turn  an  honest  penny,  I  invent 

This  wondrous  apparatus,  so  bewitchin', 

Which  is  a  very  musical  tin-kitchen ; 

But  all  in  vain,  no  tin  it  brings  to  me, 

Though  I  do  tinkle  it  where'er  I  be. 

A  knight  of  chivalry,  I  once  was  bold 

At  shivering  lances,  now  am  shivering  cold. 

I  can't  get  on  ;  and  so,  my  friends,  you  see 

The  wheel  of  fortune's  wheel  and  woe  to  me. 

Im.     What  wheedling  voice  is  that  ? 

Alon.  A  lady  gay  ! 

Madam,  will  it  please  you  hear  my  humble  lay? 
A  curious  instrument  you  see  — 

Im.  Cureious,  I'm  sure  : 

It  seems  to  ine  more  like  to  kill  than  cure. 
No  airs  for  me.     Your  voice,  it  strikes  a  chord  — 

Alon.     I  have  a  striking  voice,  upon  my  word. 

Im.     A  chord  of  memories  — 

Alon.  Lady,  you  make  me  smile. 

A  cord !  why  don't  you  measure  by  the  mile? 

Im.     Gentle  musician,  let  me  see  your  card. 

Alon.     No  cards. 

Im.  Your  pardon,  it  is  hard 

To  mock  your  poverty.     I  forgot  you're  poor. 


SNOW-BOUND.  115 

Alon.     I'm  in  the  fashion,  any  way,  I'm  sure. 

Im.     That  voice  again,  —  that  form,  —  Oh  go,  go,  go  ! 

Alon.     I  am  disguised. 

Im.  .  In  liquor? 

Alon.  No,  no,  no  ! 

Im.     That  voice  again  —  you  are  — 

Alon.  I  am. 

Im.  'Tis  he ! 

Alon.     Alonzo  Green,  from  o'er  the  dark -green  sea. 

Im.     Oh,  oh,  oh  !      (Rushes  towards  ALONZO.) 

Alon.  Stop  one  moment,  just  for  fun  : 

We'll  have  this  melodramatically  done. 

(ALONZO  goes  extreme  R.,  IMOGENE,  L.) 

Alon.     That  face,  those  form,  — 

Im.  That  eyes,  those  nose,  — 

Alon.  'Tis  she ! 

Immy  — 

Im.         Lonny  — 

Alon.  Now  :  one,  two,  three.     (Embrace.) 

Im.     But,  dear  Alonzo,  why  this  coarse  disguise? 

Alon.    Coarse  !     Of  course  it  looks  so  in  your  eyes. 
Listen,  dear  Immy.     Now  I've  older  grown, 
I  would  be  lovecZ  for  myself  alone, 
So  laid  aside  my  gilded  traps  of  war,  — 
My  shining  armor. 

Im.  To  be,  —  ah,  more  sure. 

I  see  it  all.     And  could'st  thou  doubt  thy  Immy? 

Alon.  Nay, 

Dearest  one,  I  never  could,  by  G-emini ! 
(Looks  at  her  tenderly,  places  her  up  stage,  and  indulges 
in  a  soliloquy.) 


116  SNOW-BOUND. 

To  pop,  or  not  to  pop  :  that's  what's  the  matter. 

Whether  'tis  better  now  to  cut  it  fatter, 

By  marrying  her,  or  pop  off  out  the  way. 

Her  pop  is  rich  ;   has  coupons,  so  they  say  : 

He  coops  her  up,  he  keeps  her  very  quiet,  — 

She's  like  to  die,  she's  kept  on  such  low  diet. 

I'm  poor  and  proud,  called  brave,  and  have  a  name,  — 

'Tis  all  I  have,  yet  'tis  well  known  to  fame. 

She's  in  distress,  —  may  die,  —  'tis  good  to  give: 

I'll  give  my  all,  —  my  name,  —  and  she  shall  live. 

My  heart,  fair  Immy,  at  your  feet  I  fling, 

And  while  it  beats  'twill  be  good  time  to  sing. 

(Duct,  ALONZO  and  IMOGENE.     Air,  "  Guaracha") 

Alan.     Just  listen  to  me  now,  my  fair  Imogene, 

And  nestle  up  close  to  my  side. 
You're  the  sweetest  young  lady  I  ever  have  seen: 
0  dearest  !  0  dearest  !  wilt  thou  be  my  bride  ? 


Im.      Sounds  so  joyful,  bliss  revealing, 

Chloroform-like  o'er  my  senses  stealing, 
Like  wilting  I'm  very  sure  I'm  feeling: 
Dearest  Alonzo,  you  must  ask  my  respectable  papa. 

Alon.     Ask  him?     What,  face  old  Baron  Brumagem? 
I  couldn't  do  it. 

Im.  Yes  you  can,  dear  :  come. 

Alon.     'Tis  worse  than  medicine. 

Im.  Which  you  must  take. 

Alon.     I'd  rather  take  you. 

Im.  Then  you  would  mistake. 

Good  boys  first  take  the  medicine  ;   so  don't  frown,  — 
A  lump  of  sugar  then  — 


SNOW-BOUND.  117 

Alon.  To  keep  it  down. 

I  see  the  point :  obedient  I'll  be  found, 
And  take  this  ugly  medicine  by  the  pound. 

(Pounds  on  castle.) 

(Song,  ALONZO.     Air,  "  Who's  dat  knocking") 

Alon.      Old  man,  I  love  the  little  girl 

You've  christened  Iraogene: 
Of  all  the  lasses  in  this  town, 

She's  the  fairest  I  have  seen. 
Her  eyes  so  bright,  they  shine  to-night, 

To  steal  my  heart  away. 
I'd  like  to  wed  this  little  maid,  — 

Old  man,  what  do  you  say? 

• 
Enter  BARON,  from  castle. 

Bar.     "Who  knocks  so  loud?     My  friend,  you'd  better 

steer 
For  Leonard's  auction,  with  such  knocks  shun  here. 

Alon.     Behold  in  me  a  knight. 

Bar.  Well,  knight,  good-day. 

Alon.     My  name's  Alonzo  ;  on  the  Gramp  —  ah  — 

Bar.  Shut  up,  I  say. 

I'm  not  your  grampa,  nor  your  uncle,  —  so  look  out ! 
Just  go  to  Brattle  Square,  if  you  would  spout. 
If  you've  a  story,  prythee  cut  it  shorter. 

Alon.     I  will.     I  want  to  cut  off  with  your  daughter. 

Bar.     Ha,  ha  !     And  darest  thou,  then, 
To  beard  old  Brumagern  within  his  den? 

Alon.     Oh,  cut  your  beard  !    I'd  whisk  'er  off,  old  man 
To  Hymen's  altar. 

Bar.  I  forbid  the  banns. 


118  SNOW-BOUND. 

Cut  off  yourself,  and  in  a  jiffy  too. 

My  daughter's  not  for  an/  knave  like  you. 

Alon.     The  deuce  she's  not. 

Im.  Whist,  dear  Alouzo,  whist. 

Bar.     You  cur. 

Alon.  I  can't,  my  queen. 

Bar.  From  your  pursuit  desist,  — 

A  suitor  for  my  girl  in  such  a  dress  ! 

Alon.     Hardly  a  wiuniug  suit,  I  must  confess  ; 
YeJ,  I've  her  love.     My  heart,  with  trumpet-shout, 
Cries  — 

Bar.     Hearts   are  not    trumps   here,  so  your  hand's 

played  out. 

My  daughter's  not  for  you  :  your  game  is  blocked. 
The  girl  shall  straight  be  in  a  dungeon  locked. 
I'll  stop  her  squalling,  and  her- saucy  raillery. 

Alon.     He's  going  to  put  his  daughter  on  low  cellery. 

Im.     Stay,  jailor,  stay  and  hear  my  woe. 

Bar.  Shut  up  your  bawling  ! 

Into  the  house,  —  a  heavy  dew  is  falling. 

(Exit  BAROX,  dragging  IMOGENS.) 

Alon.     O  Baron,  Baron  !    when  I  settle  with  you, 
You'll  find,  my  friend,  there  is  a  heavy  due. 
What's  to  be  done?     I  cannot  lose  her  thus, 
And  yet  I  hardly  like  to  make  a  fuss. 
This  Baron  puts  on  airs  within  his  castle  stout: 
To.  spite  him,  then,  I'll  try  an  air  without. 

(Song,  ALOXZO.     Air,  "  Up  in  a  Balloon.") 

Old  Brumagem  frowns  upon  my  love, 
And  hurries  her  off  from  my  loving  sight; 


SNOW-BOUND.  119 

But  I'll  batter  the  walls  of  his  castle  stout, 
And  carry  her  off  this  very  night. 
He'll  find  that  a  lover  danger  can  face, 
And  humbug  papas  with  a  very  good  grace; 
And,  should  he  pursue,  he'll  find  very  soon, 
His  daughter  is  off  for  a  trip  to  the  moon. 

(Spoken.)     By  the  latest  style  of  locomotion. 

Up  in  a  balloon,  up  in  a  balloon, 

With  the  Baron's  little  star,  sailing  round  the  moon. 

Up  in  a  balloon,  up  in  a  balloon, 

A  splendid  place,  with  Imogene,  to  spend  the  honey-moon. 

0  cruel  Baron,  pause  a  while, 

Ere  you  the  brave  Alonzo  snub : 

Should  I  your  daughter  bear  away, 

'Twill  cause  a  hub-bub  in  the  "Hub." 

The  papers  will  tell  of  our  sudden  flight, 

After  we're  fairly  out  of  sight: 

Detectives  will  scour  the  country  around, 

But  this  truant  young  couple  ne'er  will  be  found. 

(Spoken.)     Only  Prof.  Allen  can  tell  that  they're  — 

Up  in  a  balloon,  up  in  a  balloon, 

All  among  the  little  stars,  sailing  round  the  moon. 

Up  in  a  balloon,  up  in  a  balloon, 

Won't  it  be  a  pleasant  place  to  spend  the  honey-moon? 

Enter  IMOGENE,  with  bundle. 
Im.     Dearest  Alonzo,  partner  of  my  heart, 
I  could  not  bear  to  see  you  thus  depart, 
And  so  have  bundled  up  my  little  store, 
To  follow  you,  my  love,  the  wide  world  o'er : 
Your  Imogene  wiH  go  where'er  you  ask  her. 

Alon.     My  love,  we'll  start  at  once  for  cool  Alaska. 

Enter  BARON,  with  club. 
Bar>    Will  you  ?    Not  if  I  know  it.    I've  a  word  to  say, 


1 20  SNOW-BOUND. 

The  knight  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day 
Of  reckoning  ;  so,  my  gallant  knight,  I  reckon 
This  gal  ain't  going  off  at  your  mere  beckon. 
When  clubbed  together  you  are  strong,  I'll  own  : 
I'm  strong  on  clubs  myself,  so'll  play  it  alone. 

(Combat,  —  BARON  thrown  down.) 

Alon.     You're  euchred,  Brumagem,  and  gone  to  grass  : 
Next  time  you  hold  that  suit  you'd  better  pass. 

Im.    Pa's  on  the  ground.     Oh,  dear  !  what  shall  we  do? 

Alon.     Into  the  castle  I  will  pass  with  you. 
Spoils  to  the  victor  always  do  belong, 
I've  knocked  that  castle  down  for  a  mere  song.     (Exeunt.) 

Bar.  (sitting  up).     Astronomy  is  a  grand  study:  'tis, 

I'm  sure. 

I  never  saw  so  many  stars  before. 
"Where  have  they  gone  ?     I'll  take  myself  to  bed  : 
I  feel  quite  shaky,  specially  my  head. 

(Goes  to  castle-door  —  locked.) 
Hallo  !     I  do  believe  I'm  really  fastened  out. 
What's  this?     Hallo  !  within. 

Alon.  Hallo !  without. 

Bar.     What  means  this  outrage? 

Alon.  Don't  i?irage  yourself, 

I've  put   your  chicken  on  the  upper  shelf. 

'Bar.     Mutiny,  rebellion  !     Give  me  back  my  child, 
My  castle,  and  my  chicken. 

Alon.  Draw  it  mild  : 

Your  child  is  well  content  to  stay  with  me  ; 
Your  castle's  stayed  already,  as  you  see. 
Here  goes  your  chicken. 


SNOW-BOUND.  121 

Bar.  What  are  you  about? 

This  fowl  proceeding  — 

Alon.  (Throwing  chicken  out  of  windoiv) .     This  fowl's 
proceeding  out. 

Bar.     Confound  your  nonsense  :  let  me  in,  I  say  ! 
O  Imogene  !  you  well  shall  rue  this  day. 

Im,     Me,  pa  !  why,  what's  the  matter?    Now,  I'm  sure 
We're  doing  our  best  to  guard  your  little  store. 
Don't  blame  me,  pa :  you  know  I  try  to  please  you. 
Don't  mind  Alonzo,  —  he's  but  trying  to  tease  you. 

Bar.     Tease,  store  !  this  may  be  fun,  I'll  own, 
But  I  prefer  a  tea-store  of  my  own. 
Young  man,  forbear  :  you're  really  acting  queer. 

Alon.     I'm  doing  my  best  to  act  ''  ad  interim"  here. 

Bar.     Are  you?     We  see  you're  keen  as  any  razor. 
Remember  Samson,  and  the  gates  of  Gaza. 
Remember  Dio  Lewis  has  a  place  in  town ; 
And,  mind  your  head,  this  castle's  coming  down. 
Remember  Dr.  Windship,  and  beware, 
For,  young  '*  Ad  Interim,"  you  can't  stay  there. 
If  you  can  find  that  tease  is  made  to  pay, 
I'll  just  set  up  a  tea-store  o'er  the  way. 

(Folds  up  castle,  takes  it  to  u.  of  stage  and  sets  up  "  ORI- 
ENTAL TEA  STORE.") 

Im.     Oh,  dear!     Oh,  say!   where  are  we  now? 
Alon.  Don't  know. 

Im.     If  that's  a  sign,  at  Copeland's,  Tremont  Row. 
Alon.     This  sire  of  yours  is  really  getting  bold. 
Bar.     Hallo,  "  Ad  Interim,"  left  out  in  the  cold. 
Alon.     I  say,  old  man,  why  do  you  take  up  there? 


122  SNOW-BOUND. 

Bar.     Consult  The  Tea-cup. 

Im.  "Well,  I  do  declare, 

Did  ever  any  body  see  the  like  of  such? 

Alon.     'Tis  evident  he's  taken  a  drop  too  much. 
I'll  blow  him  up  with  Nitro-Grlycerine. 

Im.     He's  filled  with  Gunpowder  :  you  had  best  resign. 

Alon.    I'll  parley.    Old  Shouchong,  parley  if  you  please. 

Bar.     Parley,  Young  Hyson  ?     Parly-vous  Chinese  ? 

Alon.     I  can't  do  that.    I'll  give  you  French  or  Danish. 

Bar.     "You  can't  talk  Chinese?     Then  you  just  walk 
Spanish. 

Alon.     No  :  I'll  give  in.     'Tis  useless  to  hold  out, 
With  such  a  store  of  gunpowder  about. 
You'll  blow  me  up  — 

Bar.  "Well,  then,  I'm  content, 

And,  like  the  Arab,  I  will  fold  my  tent. 

(Folds  up  castle,  and  sets  it  up  as  before,  L.) 

Imogene,  my  daughter,  as  I'm  your  pappy, 
I'm  very  much  inclined  to  make  you  happy. 
Just  watch  the  house.     Now,  do  go  in,  my  dear : 
There's  something  of  a  draft  now  going  on  here. 

(Exit  IMOGENE.) 

And  now,  Alonzo,  sometimes  called  the  brave, 
About  my  daughter  you're  inclined  to  rave. 
You  want  to  marry? 

Alon.  By  my  — 

Bar.  Don't  palaver. 

I  wouldn't  buy  you.     I  will  let  you  have  her 
On  one  condition. 

Alon.  Name  it 


SNOW-BOUND.  123 

Bar.  No:  it  shall  be' sung; 

So  open  your  ears,  my  friend,  and  hold  your  tongue. 

(Duet,  ALONZO  and  BARON.    Air,  "  Sprig  of  Shillalah."*) 

Bar.  Now  hearken,  Alonzo,  as  well  as  you  c:m ; 

For,  to  gain  my  consent,  I  have  hit  on  a  plan 
By  which  you  may  marry  my  child,  Imogene. 
The  wars,  they  are  on:  I'm  drafted,  I'm  told. 
I  once  was  a  soldier,  but  now  I  am  old; 
So  I  tell  you,  Alonzo,  if  you  will  go  there, 
As  my  sub  in  the  army,  I  do  not  much  care 
If  I  give  you  permission  to  wed  Imogene. 

Alan.          Now,  Baron,  I  think  it  is  hardly  the  thing, 

On  such  a  young  blade  such  an  old  trap  to  spring, 
Because  he's  in  love  with  the  fair  Imogene. 
To  the  wars  I  will  go,  as  your  sub  I  will  serve; 
But,  regarding  your  daughter,  I  beg  you'll  observe 
Her  hand  must  be  mine,  with  a  thousand  or  two, 
Which  you  will  plank  down  when  I  come  back  to  you, 
So  impatient  to  marry  the  fair  Imogene. 

Bar.     'Tis  well.     My  daughter,  then,  is  yours  —  by 

and  by ; 

So,  in  the  coming  battle,  mind  your  eye. 
Immy,   come    here.     (Enter  IMOGENE.)     Look    at   this 

young  man  well : 

Light  beats  his  heart,  though  he's  a  heavy  swell. 
He'll  be  your  husband  — 

Im.  Oh,  my ! 

Bar.  When  tho  war  is  over. 

So  say  good-by  to  your  devoted  lover. 
Go  in,  my  lad,  and  win  :  don't  be  afraid  ; 
Send  me  the  news  by  mail,  with  postage  paid. 

(Exit  into  castle.) 


124  SNOW-BOUND. 

Alon.     And  now,  farewell  :  to  glorious  feats  of  arms 
I  turn  my  feet.     Thrice  welcome  war's  alarms,  — 
The  rolling  volley,  aud  the  piercing  fife, 
All  pomp  and  circumstance  of  martial  life. 
farewell,  sweet  Immy,  — 

Im.  Alonzo,  part  we  so? 

Leave  me  your  photograph  before  you  go. 

Alon.     Here  'tis,  sweet  angel,  wear  it  next  your  heart. 
I'll  take  my  horse,  and  leave  with  you  my  carte. 
Should  I  be  slain  when  I  the  foe  attack, 
You'll  find  the  negative  with  Mr.  Black. 

(Duet,  ALONZO  and  IMOGENE.     Air,  "  Lucy  Long") 

Alon.   0  Imogene!  you're  handsome,  and,  Imogene,  you're  young; 

And  you  have  heard  what  your  pa  just  said,  or  rather  what  he  sung. 

I  know  my  lot  is  cruel;  but  believe,  my  dearest  life, 

I'll  be  your  father's  substitute,  and  claim  you  as  my  wife. 


Then  good  by,  ^  '  I  know  your  [  strong, 


Both,  f  T,  |. 

I  ^  go  and  be  a  soldier,  and  XV    not  stay  too  long. 

(/hV,  "  Believe  me,  if  all  these  endearing  young  charms.") 

Alon.          But.  ah,  dearest  Immy,  if  to-morrow  I  go 

To  fight  in  a  far  distant  land, 
Some  other  may  claim  you,  and  .you  will  bestow 
On  some  wealthier  suitor  your  hand. 

Im.  Oh,  cease  these  suspicions !  am  not  I  your  bride  ? 

If  e'er  for  another  my  heart  should  decide, 
Forgetting  Alonzo  the  Brave, 
I  hope  that,  to  punish  my  falsehood  and  pride, 
Your  ghost  at  my  wedding  may  sit  at  my  side,  -  - 
May  tax  me  with  perjury,  claim  me  as  bride, 
And  bear  me  away  to  the  grave. 

(Repeat  chorus  to  first  stanza.) 

Then  good-by,  dear  Alonzo,  &c. 


SNOW-BOUND.  125 

Alon.     And  now  farewell :  my  steed  impatient  waits, 
And,  while  I  pause  here,  paws  without  the  gate. 

Im.     Good-by,  Alonzo. 

Alon.  Good-by,  love.     (Exit,  R.) 

Im.  He's  gone, 

Leaving  his  Imogene  to  weep  forlorn  ; 
But,  as  he  rides,  I'll  have  a  parting  word, 
And  give,  as  au  excuse,  my  lather's  sword. 

(Exit  into  castle.") 

Enter  ALONZO,  R.,  dragging  a  rocking-horse,  on  which  he 
mounts.     Enter  IMOGENE,  from  castle,  with  a  tin  sword. 

(Song,  IMOGENE.     Air,  "  Sabre  de  mon  pere.") 

Behold  this  small-sword  of  my  pa's, 

Bind  it,  Alonzo,  to  your  side: 
Worthy  to  guard  a  son  of  Mar's. 

Cherish  it,  0  Lonny  dear  with  pride! 
Amid  the  din  and  smoke  of  battle, 
Flourish  it  with  right  good  will: 
My  father  oft  did  make  it  rattle, 

For  'tis  the  sword,  the  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 
Cliorus.     Take,  then,  the  small  sword,  the  small  sword,  the  small 

sword, 
Take,  then,  the  small  sword,  the  small  sword  of  my  pa. 

(Quick  curtain.) 


ACT    II. 

Room  in  the  BARON'S   castle.     BARON   discovered  at  the 
piano,  L.,  playing.     IMOGENE  at  talle,  c. 

Im.     Now,  pa,  do  stop,  you're  making  such  a  clalter : 
Pray,  are  you  practising  an  operatta  ? 


126  SNOW-BOUND. 

You  rattle  so.     It  really  is  too  bad  : 
I  do  believe  you  have  gone  music-mad. 

Bar.     Madam,  I've  not :  so  don't  get  in  a  passion. 
To  take  to  music  now  is  all  the  fashion. 
All  that  amuses  must  the  muses  court ; 
And  so  do  I,  though  music's  not  my  forte. 

Ln.     Nor  is  piano,  now  you  have  passed  forty. 

Bar.     Immy,  my  dear,  you're  really  talking  naughty. 

Im.     Round  that  piano  you  are  ever  lingering. 
•Such  an  attachment  — 

Bar.  Surely  needs  some  fingering. 

Music's  my  idol. 

Im.  'Tis  a  shame,  I  say, 

To  pass  your  time  in  such  an  idle  way. 
Your  hair's  become  as  gray  as  it  can  be. 

Bar.     My   locks    being  turned,   the    more   I  want   a 
key. 

Im.     For  such  an  old  man,  you  act  basely  here. 

Bar.     As  you're  a  minor,  you  are  trebly  dear. 

Im.     O  pa ! 

Bar.  Well,  child. 

Im.  Do  you  know  'tis  o'er  a  year 

Since  my  beloved  Alouzo  went  from  here? 
And  not  one  line,  by  telegraph  or  post. 
He's  given  me  up. 

Bar.  He's  given  up  the  ghost. 

Im.     No,  no  !     It  cannot  be  :  he  won't  come  back. 
Must  I  wear  sackcloth? 

Bar.  If  he's  given  you  the  sack, 

Of  course  you  must.     So,  Immy,  drop  a  tear 
To  his  fond  memory,  while  I  practise  here. 


SNOW-BOUND.  127 

Im.     Oh,  don't,  dou't,  father !     If  you  must  rehearse, 
Play  an  accompaniment,  while  I  sing  a  verse. 

(Song,  "  This  kiss  I  offer  "  IMOGENE,) 

Bar.     Humbug  !     My  daughter,  you  are  very  wrong  : 
This  brave  Alouzo  isn't  worth  a  song. 
Not  worth  a  rap.      (Knock,  R.)     Hallo  !     What  noise  is 
that? 

Im.     A  rat !     A  rat ! 

Bar.  A  postman's  rat-tat-tat, 

Im.     Who  knocks  so  loud? 

Bar.  Why  don't  you  go  and  see? 

And  bid  him  welcome,  whosoe'er  he  be.     (Exit  IM.,  B.) 
A  year  and  more  Alonzo's  been  away  : 
No  longer  will  I  in  my  plans  delay. 
This  girl  must  wed  —  I'll  find  a  way  to  make  her  — ? 
The  first  rich  man  that  offers,  he  shall  take  her. 
From  this  wild  love-match  I  the  girl  will  wean ; 
We'll  have  no  more  of  this  Alouzo  Green, 

Enter  IMOGENE,  R. 

Im.     O  pa  !  such  an  arrival !     Dear,  dear  me  ! 

Bar.     Such  an  arrival !     Who,  dear,  can  it  be? 

Im.     The  greatest  man,  I'm  sure,  that  ever  was. 
He  wears  such  jewels :  'tis  the  Baron  Boz. 
Two  B's  upon  his  trunks. 

Bar.  Well,  this  is  queer. 

Two  B's,  or  not  two  B's :  what  does  he  here? 
The  Baron  Boz,  —  who  is  he? 

Im.  With  great  stir 

He  comes.     I  think  he  is  a  Roman,  sir. 


128  SNOW-BOUND. 

Bar.     A    Roman  ?      Goodness     gracious !     what     an 

answer. 

Im.     Excuse  the  emphasis,  I  meant  romancer. 
Bar.     Well,  let  him   come :  we'll  give  him  welcome, 

dear ; 

But  what  the  dickens  is  he  doing  here? 
No  matter  what,  his  coming  will  delight. 
Just  look,  my  dear,  and  see  the  lights  all  right. 

Enter  BARON  Boz,  with  book,  who  goes  to  table,  and  reads 
in  imitation  of  Dickens. 

Boz.     Alonzo  is  dead,  to  begin  with  — 

Im.  Oh ! 

Boz.  Very  much  dead. 

Im.     Oh ! 

Boz.      Run  through  the  body,  and  shot  through 

the  head. 

There  cannot  be  the  least  doubt  about  that. 
Not  a  trace  of  him  left,  not  even  his  'at : 
Very  much  dead,  my  doggrel  to  curtail, 
Alonzo  the  Brave's  as  dead's  a  door-uail. 
Or,  to  make  my  allusion  a  little  more  'andy, 
A  very  dead  duck  is  Alouzo  the  dandy. 

Im.     Hung   be   the   heavens  in  black :    this  blow  is 
cruel. 

Bar.     Heavens  !     Don't  hang  your  head,  my  precious 
jewel. 

Im.     My  Alonzo  dead  !     My,  I  —  I  —  I  —  I  — 

Bar.     Now  save  your  eyes,  my  love,  and  do  not  cry. 

Im,     My  Louny's  dead,  and  I  must  put  on  black, 
Just  when  my  new  moire-antique's  come  back. 


SNOW-BOUND.  .129 

This  news  will  drive  me  mad,  'tis  very  plain : 
Take  off  this  net,  I'm  very  much  insane. 

Bar.     Why,  so  you  are  !     Dear  me,  do  see  her  stare  ! 
What  do  you  want,  love? 

Im.  Why,  I  want  the  air. 

(Song,  IMOGENE.      Ophelia,  in  Hamlet.    "  He's  dead  and 
gone,  lady."      Sits,  R.) 

Boz.     Barou,  a  word.     If  I  have  rightly  read, 
Your  daughter  has  a  singing  in  her  head. 
Some  remedy  you  must  very  quickly  find 
To  ease  her  ravings,  and  restore  her  mind. 
This  brave  Alouzo's  dead,  and  gone  to  boot : 
As  he  was  yours,  I'll  be  his  substitute. 
Console  your  daughter  with  my  hand  and  heart. 

Bar.     Will  you  ?    Dear  me,  consols  have  takeu  a  start. 
You  have  my  blessing :  there,  go  in  and  win. 
Stay.     How's  your  income  really  coming  in? 

Boz.     Come  in  and  see,  when  you  come  o'er  the  water. 
Excuse  me,  I  would  speak  with  your  fair  daughter. 
Fair  maid,  a  fairer  image  ne'er  was  seen 
Than  by  the  light  I  view  fair  Imogene. 
I  am  the  Baron  Boz. 

Im.  Now,  go  away  : 

Barren  of  sense  you  see  I  am  to-day. 

Boz.     "  I'd  offer  thee  "  — 

Bar.  Now,  please,  hold  on  a  minute  : 

Just  let  me  strike  the  chord  ere  you  begin  it. 

Boz.     Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Bar.  Ain't  you  going  to  sing? 

Boz.     I'd  offer  thee,  fair  maid,  a  wedding-ring. 
9 


130  SNOW-BOUND. 

Bar.     Oh ! 

Im.  To  be  my  Alonzo's  widow,  I  would  rather. 

Besides,  you're  old  enough  to  be  my  father. 

{Crosses  to  BAR.,  L.) 

Bar.     Girl,  you  have  lost  your  senses ;  listen  to  his 

pleading. 
He's  made  two  hundred  thousand  by  his  reading. 

Im.     And  wouldst  thou,  father,  sell  thy  child  for  gold  ? 
Why,  pa,  he  doesn't  look  so  very  old. 

Boz.     Fair  Imogeue,.*' An  Uncommercial  Traveller" 

you  see. 

I've  "  Great  Expectations  "  that  you  will  take  me, 
A  "  Haunted  Man,"  away  from  rny  "  Bleak  House," 
And,  with  your  smiles,  will  bid  "  Hard  Times"  vamouse. 
My  heart  is  called  an  "  Old  Curiosity  Shop ; " 
But  all  its  treasures  at  your  feet  I  drop. 
I  am  the  owner  of  "Two  Cities,"  where, 
Without  you,  through  them  there's  "  No  Thoroughfare." 
My  "  Copperfield's  "  to  me  a  golden  one  : 
My  bankers  are  the  well-known  "  Dombey  &  Son." 
Of  friends  I've  plenty,  ''  Nickleby's  "  a  score, 
Who  to  my  coffers  many  "  uickles  "  pour. 
To  name  them  all  would  be  the  merest  folly,  — 
"  Mark  Tapley's  "  one  :  you  know  him,  always  jolly. 
With  old  "  Micawber,"  and  good  "  Little  Dorrit." 
I  love  them  all,  you  do  not  blame  me  for  it. 
Their  efforts  always  aid  and  comfort  lend  : 
They'll  come  for  to  go  for  to  be  "  Our  Mutual  Friend." 
But  time  is  pressing,  and  I  must  desist ; 
For  you,  fair  maid,  my  heart  is  •'  Oliver  Twist."  * 

*  All  of  a  twist. 


SNOW-BOUND.  131 

From  all  these  friends  of  mine,  pray  take  your  pick ; 
But  pick  me  first,  and  do,  dear  maid,  "  Pickwick." 

Im.     Baron,  such  volumes  of  rich  love  you  pour, 
I  never  shall  read  you  through,  I'm  very  sure. 
He's  rich  as  Crossus,  and  he  keeps  a  carriage, 
What  do  you  publish  next? 

Boz.  I  hope,  our  marriage. 

And  now,  fair  maid,  quickly  your  answer  speak, 
That  we  together  may  my  fair  land  seek. 
For  my  boat  is  by  the  shore,  and  my  bark  is  ou  the  sea : 
"  Barkis  is  willin' ; "  so,  pray  thee,  come  witli  me. 

Im.     Oh  !  isn't  that  splendid?     So  original. 

Bar.  Quite. 

Before  you  take  your  bark,  we'll  take  a  bite. 

Im.     If  you  would  marry  me,  just  ask  pupa  ; 
A  barrier  he  may  find. 

Bar.  A  barrier  ?     Bah  ! 

Take  her  in  welcome.     Soon  as  you  are  able, 
Send  me  some  cake  by  the  Atlantic  cable. 

Boz.    What  say  you,  then,  fair  Immy,  — -  shall  we  wed  ? 

Im.     Well,  baron,  if  I  must. 

Alonzo.     (Outside.)  Your  oath. 

Im.  Oh,  my ! 

Bar.  What's  that  you  said? 

Boz.     I  said  nothing.     'Twas  the  wind,  I'm  sure. 

Im.     Well,  then, — 

Alon.  Your  oath. 

Im.  Oh,  dear ! 

Bar.  Baron,  you  swore. 

Im.     What  shall  I  do?  my  spirits  are  quite  low, 
Those  spirits  underneath  annoy  me  so. 


132  SNOW-BOUND. 

Baron,  my  haud  is  yours.     This  very  day 
Let's  to  the  parson  go,  without  delay. 

Bar.     Do  it  at  once,  and  then  come  back  and  sup, 
For  fear  Alonzo  may  be  turning  up. 

Boz.     Come,  then,  my  love,  we'll   straight  our  foot- 
steps turn 

To  Hymen's  altar,  where  the  festals  burn,  — 
Where  love  awaits  the  fond  and  loving  pair. 

Bar.     Baron,  baron,  what  are  you  doing  there? 
Stopping  to  make  a  book,  I  do  declare. 

Boz.     What  am  I  waiting  for?    Why,  don't  you  know  ? 
We  want  the  wedding  march  before  we  go. 

(  Wedding  march.  BAIION  Boz  and  IMOGENE  march  to 
R.  ALONZO  appears.  IMOGENE  faints,  and  falls  into 
Boz's  arms.) 

Im.     Oh,  my  !  what  horrid  spectre  have  we  here  ? 

Alon.     Spectre!    Ha,  ha  !    You  didn't 'spect  me,  dear? 

Boz.     I  know  him  :  'tis  Marley's  ghost. 

Im.  Pa,  lay  him,  do. 

Bar.     I  can't.     I  think  he  comes  to  parley  you. 

Im.     It  is  Alonzo  ! 

Alon.  Yes,  'tis  Alonzo.     Maiden,  you  are  fickle. 

Bar.     Alonzo  here  !     This  is  a  precious  pickle. 

Alon.     You  recognize  me,  do  you?     Once  the  brave, 
The  gay,  and  jocund  ;  but  I've  grown  more  grave. 
Old  man,  you  sent  me  off  to  have  me  killed  : 
The  grave  has  given  me  up,  your  gravy's  spilled. 
I  am  the  spirit. 

Boz.  My  friend,  now  do  be  candid : 

If  you're  a  spirit,  you  should  be  well  branded'. 


SNOW-BOUND.  133 

All  spirits  here  are  subject  to  a  fine : 
We  ma-dear-a  hold  you,  if  you  do  not  whine. 
If  you're  a  spirit,  make  your  title  true : 
'Tis  clear  we  cannot  even  see  through  you. 

Alon.     I  am  a  spirit  — 

Boz.  That  you  said  before. 

Alon.     Yes  ;  and,  my  friend,  I'll  say  it  one  time  more. 
At  raising  spirits  you've  a  wondrous  knack, 
And  all  you  raise  do-  richly  pay  you  back. 
Don't  trouble  yourself,  I  beg,  romantic  Charley, 
I  didn't  come  up  here  with  you  to  parley. 
This  fair  maid  I'll  take,  for  better  or  for  wus : 
Baron,  I  think  you  had  better  accompany  us. 
I  claim  the  promise  by  you  freely  spoken  : 
Was  it,  like  pie-crust,  made  but  to  be  broken? 
I'm  in  a  hurry. 

Im.  Now,  Lonny,  don't  say  so  : 

I  really  am  not  in  a  state  to  go. 
The  new  berage  I  ordered  hasn't  come. 

Alon.     If  you  don't  start,  I  shall  be  raging  some. 

Im.     I  really  have  not  got  a  thing  to  wear : 
My  trunks  all  want  fresh  locks. 

Alon.  They'll  have  a  change  of  A-air. 

You  should  have  thought  of  this  ;  'tis  too  late  now : 
I  come  to  claim  fulfilment  of  your  vow. 
Don't  try  to  escape,  no  more  for  mercy  crave : 
Don't  jest ;  this  matter's  getting  very  grave. 
My  carriage  waits  below ;  so  come,  my  love. 

I>n.     There  let  it  wait :  I'll  stay,  myself,  above. 

Alon.     But  you  must  come. 

Im.  Your  hand  release. 


134  SNOW-BOUND. 

Alon.     Quick ! 

Bar.  Baron,  be  kind  enough  to  call  the  police. 

Im.     Police,  police  ! 

Boz.  Dolby,  Dolby,  here  ! 

Alon.     In  vain  you  call  this  Doll :  be  mine,  my  dear. 
Baron,  farewell  :  your  daughter  may  be  fouud 
"  At  Home  "  on  April  first.     Down,  down,  I'm  bound. 

(Song,  ALONZO.      See  "  Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair 
Imogene."  —  COWELL.) 

Recitative.  Behold  me !     You  told  me 

You'd  be  true,  and  you've  sold  me. 
List  to  your  own  broken  vow. 

(Air,  u  Down  among  the  dead  men") 

You  hoped  that,  to  punish  your  falsehood  and  pride, 

My  ghost  at  your  wedding  might  sit  at  your  side, 

Might  tax  you  with  perjury,  claim  you  as  bride. 

And  bear  you  away  to  the  grave  beside. 

So,  since  your  oath  you  did  forego, 

Down  among  the  dead  men,  down  among  the  dead  men, 

Down,  down,  down,  down, 
Down  among  the  dead  men  you  must  go. 


Brown.  Down,  down,  I'm  bound.  Confound  it ! 
What's  the  matter  with  the  trap? 

Smith.     Sh,  sh  !     Kick  it.      (Brown  kicks.) 

Jones.     Jump  on  it.     (Brown  jumps.) 

Voice.  (Outside.)  Look  here,  up  there!  Do  you 
suppose  I'm  going  to  have  my  house  pulled  to  pieces  in 
this  manner?  Guess  not !  (Nails.) 

Brown.     Whoa,  there ! 


SNOW-BOUND.  135 

Smith.  Stay,  nailer,  stay,  and  hear  his  woe.  (Exit, 
n.) 

Brown.     Well ! 

Miss  Robinson.     Well ! 

Jones.  Well !  your  bound  is  no  bound.  We're  stuck 
again. 

Brown.     What's  lo  be  done? 

Jones.     Give  it  up,  of  course. 

Miss  B.  What,  ain't  I  going  down  to  see  the  curi- 
osities? 

Jones.     This  is  a  pretty  way  to  end  a  play. 

Enter  SMITH,  R. 

Smith.  Hurrah  !  we're  all  right  again.  The  road's 
open  once  more  ;  the  coach  has  come  up  ;  and  in  half  an 
hour  we  shall  be  on  our  way  rejoicing. 

Jones.     Pooh,  pooh  !     But  the  play? 

Miss  R.     Yes  :  what's  to  become  of  Iniogene? 

Smith.  I  can't  imagine.  I  forgot  all  about  the  play. 
We'll  leave  it  in  the  same  condition  in  which  we  found  it, 
"snow-bound,"  until  some  mightier  plougher — I  mean 
power  —  can  break  his  way  through  to  the  end. 

Brown.     But  I  don't  like  ending  a  play  that  way. 

Miss  E.     Nor  I. 

Jones.     Nor  I. 

Smith.  Then  let's  end  it  in  the  usual  way,  by  thank- 
ing our  kind  friends  for  their  sympathy  while  snow-bound 
here,  —  thanks  which  know  no  bounds;  take  our  posi- 
tions, and  let  the  curtain  fall. 

Miss  It.     After  the  chorus. 

Smith.     Certainly,  after  the  chorus. 


136 


SNOW-BOUND. 


(Finale.     Air,  "  Beautiful  Bells.") 

Miss  R.         Merry  sleigh-bells,  0  merry  sleigh-bells ! 

Ringing  so  sweetly  to  greet  us  again: 
A  welcome  of  joy  your  merry  sound  tells, 

Chiming  a  musical  strain. 
Soon,  soon,  we  go  o'er  the  crimpy  snow : 

Oh !  happy  and  light  all  our  hearts  are  to-night, 
As  over  the  road  we  so  swiftly  go, 

While  the  moon  on  our  path  beams  bright. 

Chorus.         Merry  sleigh-bells,  0  merry  sleigh-bells ! 
Jingling  so  sweetly  to  greet  us  again: 
Merry  sleigh-bells,  0  merry  sleigh-bells ! 
Musical,  musical,  musical  bells. 

Air,  "  The  Bells  they  go  ringing  for  Sarah." 

The  bells  go  a-ringing  for  sleighing,  sleighing,  sleighing: 

The  bells  go  a-ringing  for  sleighing,  we'il  bid  you  all  good-night. 

Alan.  'Tis  time  that  to-night  we  should  leave  you, 

For  midnight  doth  slowly  draw  near: 
To  entertain  yon  we  have  all  done  our  best, 

And  we  trust  our  endeavors  please  here. 
As  Alonzo,  with  the  fair  Imogene, 

Together  now  bid  you  adieu, 
We  trust  you  will  cheer  them  at  parting, 

Baron  Boz  and  old  Brumagem  too. 

F till  Chorus.    The  bells  go  a-ringing  for  sleighing,  &c. 
(Curtain  falls.) 


SNOW-BOUND.  137 


NOTE. 

This  entertainment  was  originally  performed  by  the 
author  and  his  friends,  the  parties  using  their  real 
names.  If  "Jones  "and  "Miss  Robinson  "are  com- 
petent to  play  accompaniments,  no  other  person  is  re- 
quired ;  otherwise,  a  pianist  is  necessary  ;  and,  in  that 
case,  the  piano  should  not  be  upon  the  stage.  Most  of 
the  music  is  taken  from  Cowell's  medley  song,  "  Alonzo 
the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imogene,"  to  be  obtained  at  the 
music  stores. 


MUSICAL   AND   DRAMATIC. 


DRIFT    FIRST. 

Introduces  a  party  of  travellers  at  a  wayside  inn.  shows,  how  they  got  in, 

why  they  got  in.  and  their  doings  therein,  with  the 

following  incidents  thrown  in. 

1.  BALLAD MR.  JONES. 

2.  SONG MR.  BROWN. 

3.  RECITATION Mu.  SMITH. 

4.  SONG Miss  ROBINSON. 


DRIFT    SECOND. 
A  new  edition  of  the  wonderful  and  tragical  history  of 

ALONZO    THE    BRAVE 

AND  THE 

FAIR    IMOGENS. 

Adapted  from  the  well-known  song,  dramatized  without  permission  of  the 
author,  and  now  first  presented,  with  Musical,  Comical,  Whimsical,  Punical, 
Scenic,  and  Equestrian  effects.  In  two  parts. 

BARON  BRUMMAGEM,  Manager  of  the  "  Fair," MR.  JONES. 

ALONZO,  sometimes  called  the  '•  Brave,"  oftener  the  "  Green,". .  MH.  BROWN. 
BARON  Boz,  known  in  history  as  the  •'  Baron  all  covered  with 

jewels  and  gold." MR.  SMITH. 

FAIR  IMOGENE,  sweet  sinteen,  as  may  he  seen Miss  ROBINSON. 

PART  FIRST.  —  CASTLE  KLAUSHAUS,with  a  distant  view  of  Mt. 
Washington.  A  captive  maiden.  SONG.  —  Imogene..  "Alonzo  was  his 
name."  A  drafted  Baron.  SONG.  —  Huron.  '-Marching  all  the  day."  A 
Rebellious  daughter.  In  doors  and  out.  Woman's  rights.  A  wandering 
minstrel.  SONG.  —  Alonzo,  "Daily  the  organ-man."  The  recognition. 
"Ask  my  pa."  TRIO.  —  •' Who's  dat  knocking  at  de  door  ?"  Rejected  ad- 
dresses. SONG.  —  Alonzo,  "  Up  in  a  balloon."  A  devoted  damsel,  an  en- 
raged parent,  and  a  winning  youth.  Capture  of  the  castle,  and  the  Baron's 
store.  Rally  of  the  enemy,  and 

GRAND  TRANSFORMATION. 


now  this  small  sword.1 

A  period  of  "  a  year  and  a  day  "  is  supposed  to  elapse. 
PART  SECOND.  —  INTERIOR  OF  THE  CASTLE.  A  pupil  of  the 
conservatory.  Imogene  out  of  tirie  Puns  and  pianos.  SONG.  —  Imofff.ne, 
"  This  kiss  I  offer  "  "  A  knocking  at  the  outer  gate."  The  mysterious 
visitor.  Who  the  Dickens  is  he  ?  A  new  way  to  tell  bad  news.  Incipient 
insanity  and  it*  cure.  The  Baron  Boz  "  pops."  An  accepted  suitor.  Hush! 
that  voice.  Matters  getti'ig  grave.  Off  to  the  parson's.  Wedding  March. 
THE  UNWELCOME  GUEST.  Alonzo  back  again.  SONG.  —  Alonzo, 
"Behold  me!"  A  terrified  maiden.  "  Police  1  Police!"  The  suitor  that 
didn't  suit  her.  Down  among  the  dead  men  — almost!  SNOW-BOUND 
AGAIN.  "  Merry  Sleigh  Bells." 


BONBONS. 


A  MUSICAL  AND  DKAMATIC  ENTERTAINMENT. 


CHARACTERS. 
CHROME,    -\ 

EASEL,         (-  Amateur  Painters. 
PALLETTE, ) 
MAKIE,  a  French  bonbon  seller. 


COSTUMES. 

CHROME.  Dark  pants;  white  shirt,  with  rolling  collar;  black 
velvet  coat. 

EASEL.  White  pants;  neat  breakfast -jacket,  white,  trimmed 
with  blue ;  white  smoking-cap,  trimmed  with  blue,  blue  tassel. 

PALLETTE.  Blue  sailor  trousers;  drab  breakfast-jacket,  trimmed 
with  red  ;  drab  smoking-cap. 

MARIE.     Short  dress,  white  hose,  slippers,  hat. 

The  stage  should  be  hung  with  curtains,  with  openings  at  back 
and  side,  and  no  other  scenery  used  throughout  the  piece,  except 
such  pieces  as  are  designated. 

The  original  apparatus  used  in  the  piece  can  be  obtained  of  D.  O. 
Story,  71  Sudbury  Street,  Boston,  with  all  the  properties  required 
for  its  performance ;  the  original  costumes,  of  Mrs.  M.  A.  Wilson, 
No.  52  Chambers  Street,  Boston. 

139 


140  BONBONS. 

SCENE.  —  A  Studio.  R.,  an  easel,  at  which  sits  EASEL, 
painting'  beside  him  a  vase  of  flowers.  L.,  an  easel, 
at  which  sits  PALLETTE,  painting ;  beside  him  a  basket 
of  fruit.  Sofa,  C.,  back. 

Easel.  Beautiful !  Superb  !  Magnificent !  That  rose 
comes  out  so  perfect,  I  can  almost  smell  it.  (Sings.) 
"  I  had  a  rosebud  in  my  garden  growing." 

Palletle.  Oh,  bother  !  Can't  you  paint  a  rose,  without 
cackling  like  a  hen  over  a  new-laid  egg?  Your  con- 
founded noise  distracts  me.  Look  at  that  peach  !  You've 
made  me  paint  it  blue  ! 

Easel.  Fit  type  of  your  unhappy  disposition,  Pallette. 
You'll  never  be  a  painter  :  you're  too  irritable.  Art  de- 
lights in  all  that  is  serene,  beautiful,  calm  — 

Pallette.  Precious  little  delight  it  takes  in  you,  then, — 
a  noisy,  squalling  — 

Easel.     Pallette,  you've  no  ear  for  music. 

Pallette.  Easel,  you've  no  voice.  I'd  as  soon  listen 
to  the  bark  of  a  dog. 

Easel.     (Sings.)     "  My  bark  is  on  the  sea"  — 

Pallette.  Keep  it  off  the  high  C's,  or  'twill  surely 
crack.  I  tell  you,  it's  impossible  for  me  to  paint,  with 
that  unearthly  squall  forever  ringing  in  my  ears.  Will 
you  oblige  me  by  being  silent? 

Easel.  Certainly.  If  the  noise  annoys  you,  I'll  be 
silent  as  the  grave.  Any  thing  to  oblige. 

Pallette.  Now,  that's  spoken  like  a  good  fellow. 
Quiet  is  as  necessary  to  a  painter's  existence  —  Hallo  ! 
Where's  my  ochre?  Who's  been  at  my  paints?  I  say, 
Easel !  Easel !  Easel !  Confound  it,  are  you  deaf? 


BONBONS.  141 

Easel.     Hallo!     "Who's  making  a  noise  now? 

Pallette.     Have  you  seen  my  ochre? 

Easel.     (Sings.)     "  Tapioca,  tapioca." 

Pallette.  There  you  go  again !  I  tell  you,  I've  lost 
my  ochre  ! 

Easel.  Oh,  you're  always  losing  something!  Here, 
take  mine.  (Throws  cake  across.) 

Pallette,  Murder !  Right  on  my  canvas !  You've 
ruined  that  peach,  —  totally  ruined  that  peach  ! 

Easel.  I  do  confess  the  soft  impeachment.  No  mat- 
ter, try  again.  (Sings.) 

"  If  success  you  would  achieve, 
Try,  try,  try  again." 

Pallette.     Easel,  you  try  my  patience  to  an  alarming 

extent.     You're  a  noisy,  turbulent  fellow. 

Easel.     "  Call  me  pet  names,  dearest ;  call  me  a  bird." 
Pallelte.     Humbug !     I've  done  with  you.     I'll  pack 

up  my  goods   and   chattels,  and   leave   for  some  retired 

spot,  some  desolate  island. 

Easel.  — 

"  Like  poor  old  Robinson  Crusoe; 
0  Pallette!  how  could  you  do  so?  " 

Now,  don't.  I'll  put  myself  on  my  good  behavior,  and 
we'll  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  together. 

Pallette.  Smoke,  will  you  ?  A  fine  mixture,  truly ! 
Flowers  and  tobacco ! 

Easel.    Fine-cut :  fine  cut  flowers,  and  fine-cut  tobacco. 

Pallette.     How  can  you  so  debase  yourself? 

Easel.  My  boy,  'tis  the  economy,  of  art ;  for  while  I 
color  my  flowers,  at  the  same  time  I  color  my  meer- 
schaum. 


142  BONBONS. 

Pallette.  You'll  not  color  your  meerschaum  here. 
Either  that  pipe  goes  out,  or  I  do. 

Easel.  The  pipe  is  already  out.  Come,  Pallette, 
smooth  that  wrinkled  brow,  and  I'll  be  as  quiet  as  — 
as —  our  friend  Chrome. 

Pallette.  Chrome  !  He's  a  pretty  specimen  of  a  quiet 
man,  he  is.  Always  in  an  uproar,  always  some  new 
idea  —  and  I  do  detest  ideas  —  agitating  his  cranium. 
He  quiet!  He's  as  uneasy  as  a  weathercock,  and  as 
noisy  as  old  Boreas  himself. 

Easel.  (Sings.)  "  Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering 
railer." 

Pallette.  There  you  go  again !  Between  you  with 
your  squalling,  and  Chrome  with  his  infernal  ideas,  this 
place  is  more  like  Pandemonium  than  an  artist's  studio. 
I  tell  you,  I've  done  with  you!  I'll  go  to  some  lone 
spot,  where  no  voice  can  break  the  stillness  — 

Chrome.     (Outside.) 

"  Now,  I  swear,  by  the  light  of  the  comet-king's  tail. 
If  again  with  these  magical  colors  I  fail, 
The  crater  of  Etna  shall  hence  be  my  jail, 
And  my  food  shall  be  sulphur  and  fire." 

Enter  CHROME,  K. 

Pallelte.  Speak  of,  —  you  know  whom,  —  and  here 
he  is. 

Chrome.  Such  an  idea  !  Throw  aside  your  brushes, 
cast  loose  your  canvas,  and  listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom 
from  the  lips  of  the  sage  and  reverend  Chrome. 

Easel.  Ye  that  have  ears  to  hear,  prepare  to  stretch, 
them  now. 


BONBONS.  143 

PaUette.  Easel,  don't  make  a  donkey  of  yourself! 
What's  the  matter?  Whose  house  is  on  fire? 

Chrome.  The  house  I  live  in.  The  slumbering  em- 
bers of  genius  in  my  bosom  have  burst  into  flame,  —  a 
flame  that  can  never  be  quenched. 

Easel.     Get  an  annihilator. 

PaUette.     Call  out  the  fire-department. 

Chrome.  Our  fortunes  are  made.  Already  around 
my  brow  I  feel  the  laurel  twine.  Fame's  trumpets  ring 
in  my  ears  — 

PaUette.     Put  up  your  trumpet,  and  talk  sense. 

Chrome.  'Tis  useless  to  throw  pearls  before  swine. 
Listen.  'Tis  now  some  three  weeks  since  we  three  am- 
bitious individuals,  filled  with  the  desire  to  immortalize 
ourselves,  and  feeling  within  our  bosoms  the  glow  of  that 
seraphic  fire,  which,  leaping  to  the  brain  of  Raphael 
Titian  — 

Easel.  Oh,  come,  Chrome  !  I  petition  for  something  a 
little  more  cooling. 

PaUette.  Don't  attempt  to  fire  up  the  ashes  of  the 
great. 

Chrome.  'Tis  three  weeks  since  we  three,  fired  by 
ambition,  determined  to  astonish  the  world  as  painters. 
We  had  had  little  experience  in  the  art ;  but  that  was 
nothing. 

Easel.     No,  indeed. 

PaUette.     Anybody  can  become  a  painter. 

Chrome.     You,  Easel,  had  used  the  brush  a  little. 

Easel.     Yes  :  I  was  always  great  on  blinds. 

Chrome.  And  blind  ambition  will  yet  make  you  great. 
While  you>  Pallette  — 


144  BONBONS. 

Pallette.     Well,  I  did  a  little  glazing. 

Chrome.  Your  painful  tasks  shall  lead  to  greater 
lights.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  art ;  but  you  kindly  con- 
sented to  take  me  by  the  hand,  and  share  with  me  your 
knowledge.  We  formed  a  coalition,  swore  eternal  friend- 
ship, fitted  up  this  studio,  spread  our  canvas,  and  sailed 
in.  You,  Easel,  being  of  a  verdant  disposition,  took  to 
grasses  and  flowers,  and  have  spoiled  many  yards  of 
canvas  in  vain  attempts  to  imitate  nature. 

Ea*d.     Well,  I  like  that ! 

Chrome.  Do  you  ?  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it.  While  yon, 
Pailette,  being  a  man  of  an  unbounded  stomach,  took  to 
fruit,  and  have  not  only  destroyed  much  canvas,  but. 
devoured  your  pomological  subjects  with  the  greatest 
gusto. 

Pallette.     Well,  that's  cool  ! 

Chrome.  Ah  !  you  like  it?  While  I,  being  naturally 
of  a  roving  disposition,  took  to  the  water.  My  first 
ambitious  scheme  was  to  paint  a  sunrise  on  the  water, — 
the  mighty  orb  of  day  majestically  rising  from  his  morn- 
ing bath.  How  glorious !  But  then,  not  being  an  early 
rteer,  I  had  never  seen  this  moving  spectacle.  Of  course, 
this  fault  must  be  remedied.  Filled  with  this  sublime 
marine  and  sub-marine  idea,  I  embarked  one  dark  night 
with  a  jolly  tar,  who  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the 
water ;  but,  having  become  a  little  too  familiar  with 
whiskey  on  this  occasion,  his  whiskey  and  the  water  got 
rather  mixed.  'Twas  dark  as  pitch.  A  gale  came  on. 
The  jolly  tar  called  it  a  stiff  breeze.  I  believed  him,  for 
it  made  me  very  stiff.  Nature,  whom  I  went  to  visit, 
did  not  receive  me  kindly.  She  made  me  very  sjck.  She 


BONBONS.  145 

upset  our  boat,  and  for  six  mortal  hours  I  clung  to  the 
keel,  wet,  cold,  and  hungry.  Nature  gave  me  the  cold 
shoulder  ;  in  fact,  she  gave  me  two,  and  I  turned  my 
back  on  her  forever.  I  saw  the  sun  rise,  but  came  home 
cured  of  any  desire  to  put  it  upon  canvas.  Nature's  a 
humbug ! 

Easel.     Come,  Chrome,  don't  abuse  Nature. 

Palletle.  The  artist's  storehouse,  whence  he  draws  — 
he  draws  — 

Chrome.  Well,  draw  it  mild.  Don't  be  sentimental, 
Pallette  :  it  doesn't  become  you.  Nature's  a  humbug! 

Pallette.     Let  Nature  rest  in  peace. 

Chrome.  She  rests  too  much  :  that's  what's  the  mat- 
ter. Occasionally  she  gets  up  an  earthquake  or  tornado, 
fires  off  a  volcano,  or  swallows  an  inland ;  but,  as  a  gen- 
eral thing,  she's  too  old,  too  sluggish,  to  match  the  ruling 
spirit  of  the  age,  —  Sensation. 

Pallette.     Oh,  stuff!     Nonsense! 

Easel.     Bah !     Humbug ! 

Chrome.  How  perfectly  we  agree.  If  we  would  be 
painters,  we  must  leave  Nature  in  her  solitude,  and  study 
the  wants  of  the  age  we  live  in.  Sensation  rules  it.  Art 
has  plodded  along  in  the  old  ruts,  filling  canvas  with 
mountains,  cataracts,  ruins,  and  saw-mills,  that  nobody 
cares  to  see.  It  wants  stirring  up.  Who  cares  for  a 
sunrise?  It's  not  lively  enough.  Let  some  shrewd 
Yankee  rig  an  apparatus  to  bring  it  up  with  a  jerk. 
That  will  draw. 

Easel.     Chrome,  you're  a  fraud.     You  a  painter ! 

Palletle.     You  a  worshipper  of  the  Muses  ! 

Chrome.  Not  much.  The  nine  old  maids  of  Mount 
10 


146  BONBONS. 

Olympus  can  be  matched  by  modern  belles,  any  day. 
No  tame  Nature  for  me.  I'm  going  to  endow  Art  with 
a  new  era.  I've  got  a  magnificent  idea  for  a  sensational 
picture  that  will  astonish  the  world  :  a  great  idea.  'Twill 
take  forty  yards  of  canvas.  What  do  you  think  of 
Washington  Allston's  "Paint  King?" 

Easel.  What,  the  story  of  fair  Ellen  and  that  Vam- 
pire? 

Chrome.  Yes.  I'll  read  it  to  you.  "  Fair  Ellen  was 
long  "  — 

Pallette.  The  little  coquette,  who  hailed  a  painter 
passing  by? 

Chrome.     Exactly.     "  Fair  Ellen  was  long"  — 

Easel.     Yes.     He  gave  her  a  picture  of  himself. 

Chrome.     Precisely.     u  Fair  Ellen  was  long  "  — 

Pallette.  Oh,  I  remember  it !  She  fell  in  love  with 
the  picture,  and  swore  if  it  would  only  step  out  of  the 
frame  — 

Chrome.  She'd  step  out  with  him.  "  Fair  Ellen  was 
long"  — 

Easel.  He  did  step  out,  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and 
carried  her  off  to  his  studio. 

Chrome.     Yes,  yes.     "  Fair  Ellen  was  long  "  — 

Pallette.  Pulverized  her,  made  paint  of  her,  and 
painted  the  picture  of  somebody  else. 

Chrome.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  "  Fair  Ellen  was 
long  "  — 

Pallette.  Don't  trouble  yourself.  I  know  it  all  by 
heart.  You  can  never  make  a  picture  of  that. 

Chrome.  Oh,  but  I  can  !  The  Paint  King's  studio, 
dark,  sombre,  mysterious,  —  splendid  background.  Two 


BONBONS.  147 

figures,   "The    Paint   King    and    Fair   Ellen."     He    in 
towering  majesty,  as,  — 

"  Seizing  the  maid  by  her  dark  auburn  hair, 
An  oil-jug  he  plunged  her  within." 

(Seizes  Pallette's  hair.) 

Pallette.  Confound  you  !  That's  my  hair  !  I'm  not 
fair  Ellen,  and  I'm  not  going  into  oil. 

Chrome.  Ah,  Easel,  Pallette  !  sensation  is  our  forte. 
There  glory  waits  us. 

Pallette.  Glory  will  wait  a  long  time  before  I  meet 
her  there. 

Easel.  (Sings.)  "Meet  me  at  the  gate  when  the 
clock  strikes  nine." 

Chrome.  I  tell  you,  there's  fame  in  "The  Paint 
King."  I've  got  the  idea,  if  I  can  only  work  it  out.  I 
must  have  living  models  and  costumes  to  work  from. 

Easel.  Models !  Living  models !  You  don't,  mean 
to  say  you'll  have  them  here  ! 

Chrome.     Certainly  I  do. 

Easel.  'Tis  profanation  !  This  temple  of  art  is  sacred 
to  the  study  of  Nature. 

Pallette.     And  costumes  !    Theatrical  costumes  !     Oh, 
horror  !     We  can't  have  it !     We  won't  have  it ! 
Chrome.     You  don't  like  my  sensational  scheme? 

Pallette.  No  :  I  do  not.  He  who  would  be  a  painter 
must  draw  inspiration  from  Nature  alone. 

Easel.  Sensation !  Humbug !  There's  nothing  to 
be  compared  to  quiet,  peaceful  Nature,  and,  in  Nature, 
nothing  so  beautiful  as  flowers. 


148  BONBONS. 

Pallette.  Yes,  there  is.  Fruit  is  quite  as  attractive, 
and  far  more  profitable,  for  that  cau  be  eaten. 

Easel.     That's  why  you  take  to  it,  —  hey,  Pallette? 

Pallette.  Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?  Why  will 
you  make  yourself  disagreeable  ? 

Chrome.  That's  a  conundrum.  You'd  better  give  it 
up.  Come,  leave  those  daubs,  and  help  me  with  the 
"  Paint  King." 

Easel.     Not  I.     Nature  alone  has  charms  for  me. 

Pallette.  Nature's  my  mistress.  Chrome,  you  can't 
get  up  a  sensation  here. 

Chrome.  Can't  I?  He'll  see.  Why,  Easel,  you've 
got  into  the  vegetable  world.  What  a  monstrous  cab- 
bage ! 

Easel.  Cabbage?  Don't  you  know  a  rose  by  its 
color? 

Chrome.     I  thought  it  was  a  red  cabbage. 

Easel.  No,  sir.  That's  a  perfect  copy  of  that  rose,  — 
that  beautiful  rose. 

Chrome.  'Tis  a  beautiful  rose,  I  declare.  Well,  you 
may  keep  the  copy,  and  I'll  take  the  original  to  deck  my 
buttonhole.  (Takes  rose  from  bouquet.) 

Easel.  Confound  you  !  You've  ruined  my  bouquet,— 
totally  ruined  my  bouquet. 

Chrome.  What's  that  on  your  canvas,  Pallette?  I 
declare  !  A  turnip  !  I  never  saw  such  a  turnip. 

Pallette.  Turnip  !  Turnip  !  Why  it's  a  peach,  —  a 
perfect  peach  !  A  copy  of  that  in  the  dish. 

Chrome.  You  dou't  say  so  !  That  is  a  fine  peach. 
I'm  very  fond  of  peaches ;  and,  as  you've  so  fine  a  copy, 
I'll  take  this.  (Takes  peach  from  dish.) 


BONBONS.  14(J 

Pallctte.  My  peach  !  My  matchless  peach  !  Chrome, 
you've  ruined  me  !  You're  a  swindler  ! 

Easel.     A  confounded  nuisance  ! 

Pallede.     A  double-dyed  villain  ! 

Chrome.     Who  says  we  can't  get  up  a  sensation  here? 

Easel.     Pullette,  let's  put  him  out. 

Pallet  te.     Agreed. 

Easd.     AW11  give  you  a  sensation. 

Pallette.     Yes  :  sensation  No.  2. 

Easel.     Out  you  go. 

Pallette.     Instaiiter. 

Chrome.  Indeed  !  Then  two  against  two  is  fair  play. 
Sensation  No.  3.  (Raises  stool.  Knock.}  Hallo ! 
Hallo  !  Whom  have  we  here? 

Marie.      (Outside.) 

(Air,  "  Prima  Donna  Waltz") 

Come  buy,  come  buy  bonbons ! 
Come  buy,  come  buy  bonbons ! 
From  La  Belle  France  I  bring  you  now, 
Ze  charming,  sweet  bonbons. 

Enter,  L.,  with  a  tray  hung  about  her  neck,  on  which  are 
a  variety  of  "  Costume  bonbons."  * 

In  colors  bright  and  gay  arrayed,  . 

So  sweet  and  fresh,  to  you  I  bring, 
Wizin  my  basket,  neatly  laid, 
To  tempt  your  taste,  bonbons  I  sing. 
Come  buy,  come  buy  bonbons ! 
Come  buy,  come  buy  bonbons! 
From  La  Belle  France  I  bring  you  now, 
Ze  charming,  sweet  bonbons. 

*  Sold  by  Russell,  Tremont  Street,  Boston. 


150  BONBOXS. 

Pallette.  Bombs !  Bombs !  Why  this  must  be  a 
vivandiere. 

Easel.     She's  a  nice  little  dear.     That's  my  idea. 

Marie.  Pardon  me,  Messieurs,  if  I  am  de  trop, — 
vat  you  call  ver  mooch  iu  de  way.  I  am  ver  mis- 
erable, ver  poor.  No  1'argent,  no  monie,  no  vat  you 
call  de  greenbacks.  I  have  leave  now  our  couutree  in 
France,  to  come  wiz  mon  pere  across  ze  water  to  zis 
great  countree,  zis  grand  republique.  Mou  pere,  he 
be  ver  mooch  iudisposee,  vat  you  call  seek.  He  lose  in 
de  flesh  ;  lie  has  ze  clioak  iu  his  troat,  and  de  coff,  and 
de  wheeze,  and  all  ze  1'argeut  dat  he  bring  to  zis  grand 
coutree  vanish  in  ze  air.  Ah,  Messieurs,  but  ze  poor 
must  live;  and  I  link,  vat  vill  I  do  to  help  mon  pere? 
Zen,  Messieurs,  I  titik  of  ze  pretty  bonbons,  ze  charming 
bonbons,  zat  mou  pere  have  bring  from  France  to  please 
his  Marie ;  and  I  say,  I  vill  be  brave,  I  vill  go  to  ze 
great  American  peoples,  and  I  vill  tell  zein  of  mou  pere, 
and  I  vill  show  to  zem  mes  bonbons,  and  I  vill  sing  zem 
ze  little  song,  "  Come  buy,  come  buy  bonbons,"  &c. 

Easel.     Capital ! 

Pallette.     Splendid ! 

Chrome.  Welcome,  little  France,  to  great  America. 
The  great  American  people  hold  forth  their  arms  to  em- 
brace the  unfortunate  of  every  land. 

Pallette.     Yes  :  here's  a  pair  of  'em. 

Chrome.  Now,  don't  you  be  troubled  about  mou  pere. 
He  shall  be  takeu  care  of.  Your  bonbons  —  by  the  by, 
what  are  bonbons? 

Pallette.     Somethiug  good  to  eat? 

Easel.     Pooh  !     They're  nothing  but  sugar-plums  ! 


BONBONS.  151 

Pallette.     Oh,  pshaw  ! 

Marie.  Sugar-plums?  Vat  you  call  sugar-plums ?  I 
no  comprend  sugar-plums !  Zay  are  nice  leetle  con- 
fections. 

Pallette.     I  wonder  if  they're  Southmayd's. 

Easel.     No.     They  are  the  French  maid's. 

Pallette.  Well,  I  want  none  of  them.  They  don't 
agree  with  me. 

Easel.     Nor  I.     They  keep  me  awake  nights. 

Marie.  You  no  buy  mon  bonbons?  Zat  is  too  bad, — 
ver  mooch  too  bad  ! 

Chrome.  I'll  buy  them,  Marie.  I've  no  doubt  they 
are  very  nice.  Go  with  a  snap  too  !  But  what  are  these? 

Marie.  Ah!  zay  are  ze  latest  sensation,  —  Costume 
Bonbons. 

Chrome.     Sensation !     Hallo !     That  interests  me. 

Marie.  In  my  own  contree,  at  ze  fetes,  ze  costume 
bonbons  be  ver  mooch  ze  rage.  Ze  bonbon-seller  sings 
ze  little  song,  and  all  ze  company  takes  ze  bonbons,  ze 
harlequins,  ze  masks,  ze  dominoes,  and  zey  dress  zem- 
selves  in  ze  characters,  and  ven  zey  fail  to  make  zem 
fine,  zey  pay  ze  forfeets. 

Pallette.  Well,  I  like  that.  I'd  like  to  have  a  char- 
acter myself.  I'll  take  a  bonbon. 

Easel.     And  I.     There's  fun  in  the  idea. 

Chrome.  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  remember  your  voca- 
tion !  In  Nature,  the  great  storehouse  of  the  artist,  there 
are  no  such  things  as  tonbons. 

Pallette.     I  tell  you,  there's  inspiration  in  the  idea  ! 

Chrome.  "  He  who  would  be  a  painter  must  draw 
inspiration  from  Nature  alone." 


152  BONBONS. 

Easel.  Oh,  bother  Nature  !  I'm  going  to  have  a  cos- 
tume. 

Chrome.  Costumes!  Theatrical  costumes?  In  this 
place?  'Tis  profanation  ! 

Pallette.     But  this  is  a  case  of  real  distress. 

Easel.     Yes,  genuine  charity. 

Chrome.  Which  covers  a  multitude  of  sins.  Gentle- 
men, your  sentiments  honor  your  hearts.  Marie,  we'll 
take  all  your  bonbous,  at  your  own  price,  on  condition 
that  you  help  us  to  dispose  of  them. 

Marie.  Ah,  thanks,  Messieurs !  But  I  no  com- 
prend  deespose.  Vat  you  mean  by  deespose? 

Chrome.  I'll  tell  you.  You  hold  the  tray.  These 
two  gentlemen  and  myself  will  each  take  a  bonbon,  retire, 
and  appear  in  the  costume  enclosed.  He  who  fails  to 
personate,  to  your  satisfaction,  the  character  which  falls 
to  his  lot,  shall  pay  for  the  contents  of  your  tray. 

Pallette.     Suppose  we  all  fail? 

Chrome.  Fail !  "  In  the  Lexicon  of  youth  "  —  we'll 
patch  up. 

Easel.  That's  fair.  Pallette  will  have  to  pay  the 
bill. 

Pallette.  Will  he?  I  want  you  to  understand  there's 
a  great  deal  of  character  in  me. 

Easel.     No  one  would  ever  dream  it. 

Pallette.     Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Marie.  And  zat  is  what  you  call  deespose?  I  like 
deespose. 

Chrome.  Then  dispose  yourself  on  that  stool,  and, 
while  we  are  preparing,  give  us  one  of  your  sweetest 
songs.  Now,  then,  all  ready  ?  One,  two,  three.  Go ! 


BONBONS.  1 53 

(They   take    bonbons    and   exit,  CHROME,  PALLETTE,  L. 

EASEL,  R.) 
Marie.     Zay  have  deespose  zemselves  ver  mooch. 

(Song,  MARIE.     Introduce  any  thing  that  will  please.} 

Enter    PALLETTE,  L.,  as   a   sailor;    blue    trousers,  sailor 
shirt,  blue  jacket,  and  tarpaulin  hat. 

Marie  (dapping  her  hands}.  Ha!  ze  jolly  tar !  Zat 
is  ver  nice. 

Pallette.  Shiver  my  timbers,  blast  my  hies,  and  keel- 
haul me,  if  this  here  land-lubbery  terry firmy  ain't  as  un- 
steady as  a  seventy-four  in  a  nor-nor-easter,  her  jib-booms 
under  main-hatches,  and  her  caboose  lashed  to  the  top 
royals  amidship ! 

Marie.  Ah  !  jolly  tar,  how  you  vas  all  ze  vile  ?  Vhere 
you  come  from,  hey  ? 

Pallette.     From  a  four  years'  cruise. 

(Song,  PALLETTE.     "  A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea") 

Marie  (dapping  her  hands).  Bravo!  Bravo!  Zat 
be  ver  nice.  You  be  von  flue,  jolly  Jack-tar. 

Enter  EASEL,  as  an  old  woman ;  calico  dress,  black  shawl, 
front,  and  cap. 

Pallelte.     Hallo  !     Here's  old  Mother  Hubbard  ! 

(Exit,  L.) 
(Song,  EASEL.     "  Blessed  Rheumatics.") 

(At  the. end  of  song,  exit,  R.,  and  return   immediately  in 
first  costume.     Enter  PALLETTE,  L.,  in  first  costume.) 

Pallette.     So  far,  so  good.     But  \v here's  Chrome? 


154  BONBONS. 

Chrome.  (Outside,  L.)  Play  away,  forty-four  !  Hold 
ou,  nine  !  (Hushes  across  staged) 

Easel.    Here,  here  !    There's  too  much  noise  altogether. 

Pallette.     Yes.     We  don't  want  any  roughs  here. 

Chrome.  Roughs  !  Ay,  you're  right.  Rough  hands, 
rough  frames,  rough  faces  ;  but  beneath  the  red  jackets 
beat  hearts  that  move  all  these  to  do  such  deeds  as 
make  us  honor  and  applaud  their  claims  to  true  nobility. 
(Exit  MARIE,  R.) 

(Recitation,  CHROME.     "  The  Red  Jacket") 

Exit  CHROME,   L.,   changes  to  first  costume,  and  returns 
before  the  end  of  MARIE'S  song. 

Easel.     So  far,  so  good.     But  where's  Marie? 

Music.     Enter  MARIE,  R.,  in  French  national  costume. 
(Song,  MARIE.) 

All.     Bravo !     Bravo !     Bravo ! 

Pallette.     I  like  this.     Let's  try  another  bonbon. 

Easel.     What  an  appetite  !     Are  there  any  more  left? 

Marie.  Ah !  you  like  my  bonbons  ?  You  be  very 
hungry. 

Chrome.  They're  capital,  Marie,  and  must  be  whole- 
some :  they  lead  one  into  such  good  habits.  Shall  we 
try  again ! 

Pallette.     Certainly. 

Easel.     There's  nothing  like  them. 

Chrome.  Ready,  all !  One,  two,  three.  Go  !  (Each 
takes  a  bonbon.  CHROME'S  very  small.  Exit,  PALLETTE, 
L.,  EASEL,  R.)  Hallo!  What's  this?  The  last,  and 
certainly  the  least !  What  do  you  call  that? 


BONBONS.  155 

Marie.     Zat  leetle  bonbon? 

Chrome.     Yes  :   u  zat  leetle  bonbon." 

Marie.  Ah  !  Zat  is  ze  most  wonderful  of  all  ze  bon- 
bons. Zat  is  "La  Triumph." 

Chrome.  I  want  to  know  !  And  pray  what  is  "  La 
Triumph,"  and  what  is  it  for? 

Marie.  I  sail  tell  you.  It  is  ze  charming  leetle  bon- 
bon, ze  inspiring  leetle  bonbon  !  If  you  canuot  eat  your 
dinner  or  your  breakfast,  it  will  give  you  ze  appetite. 

Chrome.  Thank  you.  I  don't  need  it.  I  can  eat  my 
breakfast  and  my  dinner.  I'll  take  it  to  Pallette.  He 
needs  it. 

Marie.  No,  no  !  Keep  it  yourself;  keep  it  yourself! 
If  you  have  ze  sweetheart,  it  will  inspire  your  heart  wiz 
ze  greatest  love. 

Chrome.  Well,  I'm  not  in  the  sweetheart  business. 
I'll  give  it  to  Easel.  He's  got  lots  of  them. 

Marie.  No,  no  !  Keep  it  yourself ;  keep  it  yourself! 
If  you  have  something  in  your  head  — 

Chrome.  Something  in  my  head !  Is  it  an  exter- 
minator? 

Marie.     Ze  zensatiou  in  your  head  — 

Chrome.     Neuralgia? 

Marie.  No,  no!  Ze  imaginazion,  —  ze  idea,  —  zat 
you  cannot  express.  You  are  a  painter !  You  vish  to 
paint  ze  picture  :  you  have  ze  idea,  but  you  vant  ze  power. 

Chrome.  Oh,  I  see  !  It's  a  patent  stimulating  brain- 
scrubber.  It's  just  what  I  want,  for  I've  a  splendid  idea, 
"  The  Paint  King  "! 

Marie.  Capital!  Capital!  "  La  Triumph"  vill  fill 
your  soul  vith  spirits. 


156  BONBONS. 

Chrome.  Spirits?  Ah,  Marie,  be  careful!  Dealing 
in  spirits  without  a  license  is  strictly  prohibited. 

Marie.  You  vill  paint  ze  most  beautiful  picture.  Ze 
earth  vill  be  filled  viz  beauty,  and  ze  heavens  glow  viz 
light. 

Chrome.  And  I  shall  see  stars !  Come,  then,  "  La 
Triumph,"  show  your  power  ;  inspire  my  brush,  and  you 
will  triumph  indeed.  (Snaps  bonbon,  and  takes  from  it 
a  small  vial.  Drinks.)  Bah  !  "  Sedlitz  powders."  Booh  ! 
it  makes  me  shiver!  (Yawn.)  How  my  head  spins! 
(Yawn.)  I  see  a  yawning  gulf.  (Yawn.)  Who  cares? 
You  can't  beat  mine.  (  Yawn.)  "  Fair  Ellen  was  long"  — 
(Yawn.)  I  wonder  if  she  was  as  long  as  that!  "The 
delight  of  the  fair."  (Yawn.)  u  No  damsel  could  with 
her  compare."  (Yawn.)  Marie,  your  bonbons  over- 
power me.  (Yawn.)  Sailor  bonbons.  (Yawn.)  Rheu- 
matic bonbons.  (Yawn.)  Fiery  bonbons.  (Yawn.) 
What  next  ? 

Enter  PALLETTE,*  L.,  EASEL,!  R.     (CHROME  falls  upon 
sofa.) 

Pallette.     Charles  hof  the  Hoxfords,  you  know. 

Easel.     Hedwin  hof  the  Hoxfords,  my  boys. 

(  Curtain.) 


*  As  Charles  of  the  Hoxfords.    See  costumes  In  cut. 
f  As  lied  win  of  the  IIox  fords.    Bee  costumed  in  cut. 


BONBONS.  157 


THE  PAINT  KING, 


A  MUSICAL    EXTRAVAGANZA. 


PART  FIRST. 

FAIR  ELLEN,  romantically  inclined  to  be  loved  for  herself  alone. 

PRINCE  WEAZEL,  aflbcted  by  her  possessions,  and  anxious  to 
possess  her  affections. 

Co0NT  PALATINE,  the  lady's  big  brother,  fond  of  the  national 
game. 

The  PAINT  KING,  a  medium  controlled  by  evil  spirits. 


COSTUMES. 

FAIR  ELLEN,  white  satin  dress,  pearl  necklace,  flowing  tresses. 

PRINCE  WEASEL,  white  shape  dress,  trimmed  with  green 
velvet;  white  tights,  green  shoes,  white  cap  and  jrreen  feather. 

COUNT  PALATINE,  blue  shape  dress,  trimmed  with  silver;  blue 
slices,  White  tights,  blue  cap  and  feather. 

PAINT  KING,  chocolate-colored  shape  dress,  with  tights  to  match ; 
black  shoes,  cap. 


SCENE.  —  Exterior  of  COUNT  PALATINE'S  residence,  with 
a  view  of  the  lay-window,  K.  ELLEN  seated  in  the 
window,  sewing. 

Ellen.     Ileigho  !     The  weary  sun  has  gone  to  rest 
Behind  the  cloudy  curtains  of  the  west ; 
Nature's  grand  orchestra,  melodious  frogs, 
Are  buckling  on  their  armor  in  the  bogs, 


158  BONBON*. 

To  assail  the  coming  of  the  silver  moon 
With  silver  notes  from  cornet  aud  bassoon. 
Ah,  happy  frogs  !     Music  hath  power  to  warm 
Your  miry  homes  with  an  admired  charm  ; 
But  I,  poor  hapless  maid,  must  sit  aud  sew, 
Watching  the  fleeting  shadows  come  aud  go  ; 
Or  climb  the  winding  stairs  the  livelong  day  ; 
Pore  o'er  the  *'  Atlantic  "  in  this  little  "  bay," 
Skim  from  the  dailies  all  their  choicest  cream, 
Or  scribble  for  the  weeklies  by  the  ream. 
'Tis  all  iu  vain !     Nothing  will  give  me  rest. 
Skullcap,  valerian,  Mrs.  Winslow's  best, — 
All  have  I  tried  ;  and  yet  full  well  I  know 
My  Aarrowed  heart  requires  a  guiding  beau. 
Of  fulsome  flattery  I  have  tired  grown, 
/  would  be  loved  for  myself  alone. 

(Song,  ELLEN.     Air,  "  Coming  thro'  the  rye.") 

If  a  body  would  be  happy, 

Sitting  in  the  bay, 
Place  a  lover  close  beside  her, 

Sitting  in  the  bay. 
There's  a  charm  about  these  fellows, 

No  one  can  say  nay. 
Oh  for  a  swain  to  smile  on  me, 

While  sitting  in  the  bay! 

If  a  body  would  be  happy, 

Sitting  in  the  bay, 
Place  a  loving  arm  about  her, 

In  a  manly  way; 
Whisper  in  her  ear  sweet  praises; 

Bid  her  name  the  day. 
Oh !  such  a  beau  I'd  ne'er  refuse 

While  sitting  in  the  bay. 


BONBONS.  159 

O  Fortune  !  if  you  love'  me,  send  along 
Some  sir  or  answer  to  my  loving  song. 

Enter  PAINT  KING,  R.,  with  a  covered  picture  on  his  arm. 

P.  K.     Good  old  Dame  Nature,  like  all  country-bred, 
Has  early  sent  her  bouncing  son  to  bed. 
In  seas  of  gold  he  sinks  beneath  the  sky, 
Which  proves  that  he  has  speculation  in  his  eye. 
For  one  so  steady,  this  is  very  queer : 
So  many've  sunk  in  gold  this  fiscal  year. 
Of  all  you  raise,  we'll  very  freely  borrow, 
Good  night,  old  Sol,  turn  up  again  to-morrow  : 

Ellen.     Heigho  !     Thou  glorious  sun,  still  tarry  near : 
Don't  leave  me  solitary  sitting  here. 

P.  K.     One  touch  of  Nature  kinship  doth  inspire 
Between  the  setting  sun  and  sitting  sigher. 

What  sweet  enchantress  do  I  now  espy, 
Chanting  her  "high-hows"  with  such  dignity? 
'Tis  the  fair  Ellen  !  comely  and  divine, 
The  airy  heiress  of  the  Palatine. 
At  humble  people  she  doth  jeer  and  scoff: 
I'll  straightway  leave,  ere  she  doth  take  me  off. 

Ellen.     Ahem !     Ahem ! 

P.  K.  With  other  hems  her  needle's  found  : 

That  needless  hem  was  meant  to  turn  me  round. 

Ellen.     Stay,  gentle  stranger !      Whither  would  you 
flee  to  ? 

P.  K.     I  am  pursued  ! 

Ellen.  By  what? 

P.  K.  A  huge  mosquito  ! 

Ellen.     Nay,  stay,  and  list  to  Nature's  matin  song : 


160  BONBONS. 

Her  feathered  songsters'  sweetest  notes  prolong ; 
The  insect  hums,  the  dripping  water  sings  — 

P.  K.     What    are    their    hums    to    their    confounded 
stings? 

Ellen.     I  dote  on  Nature. 

P.  K.  Do  you  ?     So  don't  I. 

Ellen.     Pure  are  the  charms  that  in  sweet  Nature  lie  — 

P.  K.     Pure  !  I  fear  'twould  Southmayd  shock, 
There's  so  much  terra  alba  in  her  stock. 

Ellen.     She's  ever  busy  :   like  the  spider,  weaves  — 

P.  K.     I've  spied  her  often  when  her  work  she  leaves. 

Ellen.     So  orderly  and  neat  each  flowery  mead  ! 

P.  K.     Neat?     You  forget  she's  partial  to  the  weed. 
She  has  such  force  to  back  her  when  she  shoots, 
Cigarcity  should  tell  you  that  she  roots. 

Ellen.     So  graceful  in  her  motions  ! 

P.  K.  Not  at  all : 

She  can't  get  through  the  year  without  a  fall ! 

Ellen.     You  rail  at  Nature.     Your  revilings  quit. 

P.  K.     Madam,  I've  finished.     My  last  rail  is  split. 

Ellen.     Who  are  you?     With  a  proud,  offensive  gait, 
You  rove  unbidden  o'er  my  wide  estate. 

P.  K.     My  name  is  Norval. 

Ellen.  Of  the  Grampian? 

P.  K.  No : 

For  he,  alas !  was  murdered  long  ago. 

Ellen.     A  distant  relative? 

P.  K.  I  thank  you,  nay. 

Too  many  relations  put  him  out  the  way. 
My  name  is  Norv'al.     lu  an  attic  small, 
My  father  fed  his  flock,  —  sixteen  in  all. 
It  was  his  constant  care,  in  this  retreat, 


BONBONS.  161 

With  awl  and  waxed-ends  to  make  all  ends  meet ; 

To  make  the  last  loaf  ever  last  the  more, 

And  keep  me  trotting  to  the  grocery  store. 

For  I  had  heard  of  painters  ;  and  I  longed  to  rush, 

And  at  the  canvas  have  a  passing  brush. 

Blind  Fate  soon  granted  what  my  pa  denied, 

And  with  impartial  interest  took  my  side. 

This  moon,  this  silver  moon,  which  rose  last  night, 

Showing  a  quarter  to  our  wondering  sight, 

Had  scarcely  filled  his  horn  across  the  bar,  — 

The  horizontal  bar  which  stretches  far 

'Twixt  earth  and  stars,  —  when,  by  its  glare, 

A  band  of  fierce  whitewashers  climbed  the  stair! 

Into  our  attic  rushed  !   the  walls  assailed  ! 

Till  they,  beset  by  pails  and  brushes,  paled. 

My  parents  fled  for  safety  ;  but  defiant,  I, 

Seizing  their  implements,  my  hand  did  try. 

Watching  their  movements  while  I  held  position, 

I  whitewashed  like  a  first-class  politician. 

With  triumph  filled,  'twas  theu  I  did  disdain 

My  father's  sole  employ,  which  brought  no  gain ; 

And,  having  heard  that  Childs  paid  heavy  salary 

To  artful  men  who  furnish  his  Art  Gallery, 

I  packed  my  carpet-bag,  and  off  did  hurry, 

For  an  Adirondac  tour  with  Mr.  Murray. 

There  did  I  sketch,  and  scratch  my  humble  name, 

And  do. .the  deed  which  gilds  this  little  frame. 

Ellen.     Oh!  hum — 

P.  K.  Ma'am? 

Ellen.  Humbly  do  I  pray 

To  see  your  picture. 
11 


162  BONBONS. 

P.  K.  Nay,  nay,  nay  ! 

Ellen.     Is  it  a  horse  piece  ? 

P.  K.  No,  upon  my  honor  : 

The  best  horses  are  taken  by  Rosa  and  Robert  Bonner. 
Mine  is  a  modest  subject. 

Ellen.  Then,  'tis  plain, 

It  must  be  a  portrait  of  Geo.  Francis  Train. 

P.  K.  You  mock  me,  lady  ;  but  we'll  let  it  pass. 
I  am  no  sculptor,  and  can't  work  on  brass. 

Ellen.     Do  let  me  see  it,  Mr.  Norval  dear ! 

P.  K.  I  can't.  It  has  no  worth  nor  value  here. 
Good  Mr.  Childs  would  fly  to  arms  should  I  display 
His  purchased  treasures  in  this  open  way. 

Ellen.     That  is  all  nonsense  !     Nothing  need  you  fear. 
Children  in  arms  are  not  admitted  here. 
That  picture  I  must  see  ! 

P.  K.  I  must  away. 

Ellen.     You  do  refuse  me  ? 

P.  K.  Still  I  must  say  nay. 

Ellen.     I  shall  get  angry  ! 

P.  K.  Passion  won't  avail. 

Ellen.     I'll  buy  it. 

P.  K.  This  canvas'  not  for  sale. 

I  bave  another  I  will  bring  to-night,  — 
A  subject  far  more  pleasing  to  your  sight. 

Ellen.     Then  I'm  content.     If  you  will  bring  it  here 
•I'll  purchase  it. 

P.  K.  You'll  find  it  very  dear. 

Ellen.     You're  very  poor,  I  see. 

P.  K.  In  flesh,  you  mean  ? 

Ellen.     Nay,  in  your  purse. 


BONBONS.  163 

P.  K.  My  purse  is  rather  lean  : 

Yet  I  am  proud.     I  scorn  the  filthy  trash 
That  men  call  greenbacks  — 

Ellen.  Then  you  sell  for  cash. 

(Aside.)     This  youth  is  poor  :  he  knows  that  I  am  rich. 
Wouldst  wed  for  money  ? 

P.  K.  Gold  or  greenbacks,  —  which  ? 

Eilen.     Either. 

P.  K.  Well,  —  neither.    I'm  very  poor,  I  own  ; 

But  when  I  wed,  I'll  wed  for  love  alone. 

Ellen.     Your  scorn  of  wealth  is  noble. 

P.  K.  Fare  you  well. 

Ellen.     You'll  bring  the  picture  that  you  have  to  sell? 

P.  K.     It  shall  be  here  in  half  an  hour,  sure. 

Ellen.     You'll  bring  — 

P.  K.  Or  send  it  by  the  Messenger  Corps. 

Ellen.     Be  sure  you  bring  it. 

P.  K.     It  is  so  heavy,  and  so  far  away  — 

Ellen.     Then  bring  yourself,  and  let  the  picture  stay. 
(Exit,  R.) 

P.  K.     Ha,  ha  !     I  smell  some  mice.     'Tis  very  clear 
The  painter,  not  the  picture,  's  wanted  here. 
She  little  dreams,  that,  'neath  these  humble  clothes, 
A  wily  schemer  doth  a  while  repose, 
Who  one  "•  lost  art"  again  has  brought  to  light, 
And  paints  his  pictures  by  a  patent  right. 
Farewell,  fair  sewer,  you  shall  soon  behold 
Whether  my  picture  or  yourself  is  sold.      (Exit,  L.) 
(PALATINE  and  WEAZEL,  outside,  L.) 

"  See  the  conquering  heroes  come, 
Sound  the  timbrels,  beat  the  drum." 


164  BONBONS. 

Enter  at  L.,  WEAZEL  with  a  large  ball,  PALATINE  a  bat. 
Wea.     Behold  the  champion  ball !   We've  won  the  day. 
Our  score  was  forty  — 

Pal.  Hip,  hip,  hip,  hooray  ! 

Wea.     Don't  bawl  so  loud  !     The  muffins  we  subdued. 
Two  was  their  score  — 

Pal.  A  case  of  forty-tude. 

I  muffed  four  balls,  and  caught  one  on  the  fly. 

Wea.     You  caught  it  well. 

Pal.  It  lodged  in  my  eye. 

Wea.     It  was  a  hot  one. 

Pal.  Ay,  it  was  a  stinger, 

That  made  me  basely  bawl,  though  no  base  singer. 

Wea.     Of  all  the  glories  manly  sports  can  yield, 
Give  me  the  glories  of  a  base-ball  field. 
Laud,  if  you  will,  the  Muses  as  divine: 
They're  not  so  striking  as  our  modern  Nine. 

Pal.     O  Weazel,  Weazel !  I  am  sore  afraid 
These  bruised  limbs  their  last  home-run  have  made. 
This  buoyant  game,  of  which  we've  been  partakers, 
Though  on  a  little  field,  has  many  acres. 
O  glorious  game  !     How  can  I  pass  thee  by  ? 

Wea.     You  look  upon  it  witli  a  swelling  eye. 
You  know  the  pitcher  that  too  often  goes 
Into  this  field  is  sure  to  break  his  nose. 
Don't  be  put  out  when  accidents  befall  — 

Pal.     I  ne'er  was  put  out  by  so  foul  a  ball. 

Wea.     You're  getting  chicken-hearted. 

Pal.  You  are  wrong  : 

I'm  going  to  run  my  base  — 

Wea.  How? 

Pal.  With  a  son":- 


BONBONS.  165 

• 

(Song,  PALATINE.     Air,  '•'•Old  Oaken  Bucket") 

How  clear  to  my  heart  is  the  green-covered  ball-field, 

When  good  rival  captains  their  men  rightly  place ! 
The  pitcher,  the  catcher,  the  right  field  and  left  field, 

The  good  men  and  true  men  we  place  on  each  base. 
The  short -stop  so  lively !     The  centre-field  ready ! 

The  bat,  and  the  striker  who  aims  to  send  high ! 
But  dearer  than  all,  to  the  hearts  of  true  fielders, 

Is  the  leathern-chid  base-ball  we  catch  on  the  fly. 
The  well-covered  base-ball,  the  jolly  old  base-ball, 

The  leathern-clad  base-ball,  we  catch  on  the  fly. 

Enter  ELLEN,  L. 

Ellen.     Who  dares  disturb  our  rest?      Base    bawlers, 

cease  ! 

Your  roars  uproarious  break  our  quiet  peace. 
Why,  'tis  my  brother  !  with  triumphant  tread 
And  conquering  arms  — 

Pal.  Ay,  and  a  swelling  head. 

Ellen.     He  comes  ! 

Pal.  Now,  cease  your  clamor,  sister. 

Ellen.     But  this  is  bliss. 

Pal.  My  eye  calls  for  a  blister. 

Bring  me  a  cracker  moistened. 

Wea.  Hold  !     Be  steady  ! 

That  eye  of  yours  has  crack  ernough  already. 

Ellen.     A  stranger ! 

Wea.  Introduce  me,  Palatine. 

Pal.     Prince  Weazel,  sister  ;  captain  of  our  nine. 

Ellen.     Delighted,  captain. 

Wea.  Happy  to  meet  fair  Ellen. 

Pal.     Bring  me  that  cracker.   How  my  eye  is  swelling  ! 

Wea.     Bewitching  maid,  those  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 


166  BONBONS. 

• 

My  youthful  heart  have  pierced  through  and  through. 
They  put  me  out. 

Pal.  Now,  this  is  too  severe ! 

If  you're  put  out,  she'd  make  a  short  stop  here. 

Ellen.    If,  Captain  Prince,  they  have  a  piercing  glance, 
Don't  let  them  put  you  out  of  countenance  : 
With  air  so  noble,  and  moustache  so  curled, 
I  wouldn't  cut  you,  really,  for  the  world ! 

Wea.     O  charming  maid  !  I'd  gladly  call  you  mine. 

Ellen.     A  prince,  I  think  you  are  ? 
Wea.  I  am. 

Ellen.  Pray,  of  what  line  ? 

Pal.     Prince  of  Good  Fellows. 

Ellen.  That  line's  very  long. 

Wea.     To  cut  it  short,  I'll  spin  out  with  a  song. 

(Song,  WEAZEL.     Air,  "  Five  o'clock  bus.") 

They  call  me  Prince  Weazel :  the  fortunes  I  bear 

Are  lands  (under  water),  and  castles  (in  air). 

My  coffers  with  precious  (few)  jewels  are  filled: 

In  modern  accomplishments  I  am  well  skilled. 

I  drive  my  fast  horses,  I  sing,  and  I  dance, 

Promenade  every  day,  and  devour  romance. 

But  dearer  to  me  is  this  title  of  mine; 

For  I'm  captain,  you  know,  of  the  Silk-Stocking  Nine. 

Chorus.  —  For  the  Silk-Stocking  Nine 
Upon  every  field  shine ; 
And  I'm  captain,  you  know, 
Of  the  Silk -Stocking  Nine. 

What  is  life  but  a  game,  with  its  pitch  and  its  toss, 
Here  scoring  a  run,  and  there  making  a  loss! 
Full  of  muffins  and  byes,  that  daily  rally, 
'  '•"  Mocking  our  efforts  to  make  a  good  tally. 


BONBONS.  167 

Yet  they  serve  best  in  the  field  to-day, 

Who,  joining  their  forces,  make  double  play : 

Then  do,  Fair  Ellen,  be  partner  of  mine, 

And  you  captain  shall  be  of  the  Silk -Stocking  Nine. 

For  the  Silk-Stocking  Nine,  &c. 

Ellen.     Your  very  flattering  offer  me  delights  : 
'Tis  an  acknowledgment  of  Woman's  Rights. 
She  aims  to  lead.     I  really  feel  elated, 
As  a  base-ball  captain  to  be  nominated. 
The  good  time's  coming  fast  when  men  can  yield 
The  foremost  place  to  her  on  any  field. 
Wea.     You  do  accept  me? 

Ellen.     Well,  I'll  think  it  over. 
I'd  quite  resolved  never  to  have  a  lover 
Who  kept  fast  horses,  dealt  in  fancy  stocks, 
Deposited  in  banks  which  have  no  locks. 
Checks  on  such  banks  the  longest  purses  harrow. 

Wea.     O  Moses ! 

Pal.  Hush  !     That  was  a  hit  on  Faro. 

Ellen.     The  greatest  happiness  that  can  be  known 
Is  to  be  loved  for  one's  self  alone. 
So,  hark  you !     When  I  do  my  hand  bestow, 
My  money  to  the  Consumptive's  Home  must  go. 

Wea.     "  Love  in  a  cottage." 

Pal.  Bah  !     That's  gone  by. 

You'll  never  find  the  man. 

Ellen.  I've  one  in  my  eye. 

(Song,  ELLEN.     Air,  "  JEupidee."') 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  by  my  window  just  now  passed 


168  BONBONS. 

A  youth,  who  bore  a  picture-frame, 
And  answered,  when  I  asked  his  name, 
Chorus.  —  Eupidee,  &c. 

His  dress  was  poor,  his  purse  was  low, 
Yet  proudly  walked  he  to  and  fro: 
He  kept  his  picture  very  nice, 
And  answered,  when  I  asked  the  price, 
Eupidee,  &c. 

Oh !  should  I  meet  that  youth  again, 
This  swelling  heart  could  ne'er  refrain. 
I'd  cast  all  prudish  arts  away, 
And  unto  him  would  boldly  say, 
Eupidee,  &c. 

Pal.     Nonsense  !     Here's  a  pretty  how-d'ye-do  ! 
Wea.     I  wish  that  Longfellow  had  been  cut  in  two! 

Pal.     Hark  you,  Miss  Ellen,  I  am  master  here. 

Ellen.     I  want  to  know  ! 

Wea.  Now,  Pal.,  don't  be  severe. 

Pal.     My  will  is  law. 

Ellen.  Law,  now,  do  tell ! 

Pal.     This  is  Prince  Weazel.     Look  upon  him  well. 
He's  the  best  catcher  of  our  famous  Nine. 

Ellen.     He  can't  catch  me,  though. 

Wea.  Nay,  now,  do  be  mine  ! 

Pal.     Silence  !     Now,  by  our  royal  name, 
I  will  be  umpire  in  this  little  game. 
Miss  Ellen  Palatine,  do  you  behave  : 
This  youthful  prince  is  noble,  rich,  and  brave,  — 
Very  accomplished,  —  ay,  and  more  than  that, 
He  has -a  striking  air. 

Ellen.  Then  send  him  to  the  bat. 


BONBONS.  169 

Pal.     He's  learned,  highly  skilled  in  foreign  lingo. 

Ellen.     Send  him  to  France. 

Pal.  You  marry  him,  by  jingo  ! 

So  get  your  silks  and  muslins  into  trim : 
Thursday,  at  2,  P.M.,  you  marry  him! 

Ellen.     But  — 

Pal.  Silence,  I  say  ! 

Ellen.  Oh,  fiddle-de-dee! 

"With  my  own  muslins  you  can't  muzzle  me. 
I'm  a  free-born  woman,  and  I  pay  my  taxes : 
Do  you  think  I'll  marry  the  first  man  who  axes? 
Oh  for  some  champion,  these  brutes  to  smother ! 
Some  Anna  Dickinson,  or  any  other. 
I'll  marry  whom  I  please  !  now,  mark  you  that. 
If  you  are  sharp,  you'll  find  I  can  be  flat. 
So  get  your  parson  :   when  the  bargain's  closed, 
Just  mention  that  the  bride  is  indisposed.     (Exit,  K.) 

Wea.     And  then  the  band  struck  up  — 

Pal.  The  hussy's  made  a  stir. 

Band  or  no  band  — 

Wea.  I  oe'er  can  husband  her. 

Pal.     She  will  come  round.     I  think  this  is  a  feint. 
Hard  fare  and  locking  up  will  cure  — 

Wea.  It  ain't. 

She  reads  "  The  Revolution  ;  "  and  you  bet 
"  Hard  fare  ne'er  won  faint  lady  yet." 
An  offer  of  my  hand  I  did  parade  : 
How  can  I  win  her? 

Pal.  Try  a  serenade. 

Enter  PAINT  KING,  L.,  dragging  on  a  trick  picture,  which 

should  be  a  frame  seven  feet  high,  Jive  wide  ;  at  the  back 


170  BONBONS. 

a  black  cloth,  on  which  is  painted  the  statue  of  a  woman 
on  right  side.  In  front  is  a  green  curtain,  which  con- 
ceals it  when  brought  on.  Space  should  be  left  between 
the  frame  and  the  back  for  the  PAINT  KING  to  take  his 
place.  It  should  be  placed  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  in 
front  of  the  opening  in  the  curtain,  and  so  arranged 
that  the  PAINT  KING  can  get  into  it  without  being  dis- 
covered. 

Wea.     Confusion ! 
Pal.  Oh,  my  eye  again  ! 

Murder ! 

Wea.         His  painting's  struck  my  brain  ! 
Pal.     Fellow,  are  you  insane?  or  are  you  blind? 
P.  K.     No  :  only  in  an  uneasy  frame  of  mined. 
Pal.     A  slim  excuse,  although  your  frame  is  stout. 
Wea.     That's  the  Longfellow  she  does  rave  about. 
Pal.     Ha!     Say  you  so?     We'll  take  his   highness 
down. 

You're  poaching  on  my  manor,  you  base  clown. 
P.  K.     If  that's  your  manner,  it  requires  polish : 

So  mean  a  base  as  that  you'd  best  abolish. 

Pal.     He  mocks  me,  Weazel.    Oh,  with  rage  I  choke  ! 

My  blood  is  boiling  ! 

Wea.  Don't  a  broil  provoke. 

You're  very  stewpid  :  coolly  treat  the  joker  ; 

Don't  let  your  choler  be  to  you  a  choaker. 

Pal.     I  will  be  cool.     Hark  you,  young  painter  swell  1 

What  want  you  here  ? 

P.  K.  Your  blooming  sister,  Nell. 

Pal.     She's  not  at  home. 

Wea.  She's  gone  out  for  the  day. 


BONBONS.  171 

P.  K.     I'll  tarry,  then. 

Wea.  You'd  better  turn  away. 

Pal.     She  sees  no  strangers,  so  no  longer  tarry : 
When  she  gets  home  I  will  your  message  carry. 
I  am  her  guardian,  for  she  has  no  other  — 

P.  K.     Ah  !  what  is  home  without  a  homely  brother? 
Your  fond  affection,  count,  doth  touch  my  heart : 
It  moves  me  strangely  ! 

Wea.  Then,  why  don't  you  start? 

P.  K.     Well,  really,  prince,  I  am  not  good  at  guessing. 

Pal.     The  naked  truth  is,  that  you  want  a  dressing. 
Oh,  how  my  fingers  itch  his  face  to  spoil  ! 

P.  K.     I'm  not  a  salad,  though  I  mix  with  oil. 

Pal.     Will  you  be  gone? 

P.  K.  Your  tongue  is  very  glib, 

But  from  it  just  now  there  rolled  off  a  fib. 
Your  sister  is  at  home  ;  so  here  I  stay  : 
As  Count  Unreliable  you  count  any  way. 

Pal.     An  insult  to  my  face  ! 
Wea.  'Tis  very  plain 

This  painter  chap  we've  "  interviewed  "  in  vain. 

Pal.     You've  laid  upon  my  patience  hea-vy  tax. 
Your  fate  is  sealed. 

Wea.  Ay,  sealed  with  heavy  wax. 

P.  K.     Come  on  !     Come  on  !     Your  strongest  man 

shall  fly 

From  his  first  base  almost  as  soon  as  I. 
Here  am  I  fixed,  and  here  I  mean  to  stay ; 
So,  fiery  youths,  go  in,  and  blaze  away. 

Wea.     Well,  here's  my  compliments  !     (Raising  ball.) 

Pal.     And  here  are  miue  !     (Raising  bat.) 


172  BONBONS. 

Enter,  ELLEN,  R.      Takes  c. 

Ellen.     Hold  !  villains,  hold  !  enough  !  this  quarrel's 

mine. 

"•  Who  touches  a  hair  of  his  black  head, 
Dies  like  a  dog.     March  off!  " 

P.  K.  She's  read  ! 

A  Whittier  maid  ne'er  came  in  hour  of  need. 

Ellen.     Why,  it  is  Norval  ! 

P.  K.  Yes,  it  is  indeed  ! 

Bdiold  my  picture:  'tis  of  goodly  size; 
May  it  be  precious  in  thy  precious  eyes ! 
Bestow  it  in  your  album,  guard  it  well, 
Think  often  of  the  giver,  and  —  farewell ! 

Ellen.      Why,  you're  not  going ! 

P.  K.  .  Ay,  I  must  away. 

Ellen.     But  you're  not  paid  — 

P.  K.  I'll  call  another  day. 

Good-night,  my  roaring  blades,  you  have  my  blessing. 
Some  other  time  I'll  take  that  promised  dressing. 

(Exit,  L.) 

Pal.     Miss  Ell  — 

Ellen.  Hold,  brother,  stay  ! 

Dou't  speak  in  that  Miss  Ellaneous  way. 

Pal.     But  I  will  speak,  in  spite  your  bold  defiance. 
Miss  Ellen,  you  shall  make  no  mesalliance. 
The  bones  of  our  great  ancestors  indignant  rattle, 
To  hear  you  with  a  base  plebeian  prattle. 

Ellen.     Pooh !     Who    cares    for   all   their  sisrhs    and 


groans 


You  just  walk  round  here  while  they  play  the  bones. 


BONBONS.  173 

Pal.     With  indignation  I  am  almost  choking. 
Wea.     Tliis  little  Nell  is  really  quite  provoking. 
A  simple  painter  !      Shouldn't  you  look  higher? 

Ellen.     He's  full  six  feet.     What  more  could  I  desire  ? 
But  where's  my  picture? 

Wea.  Here,  against  the  wall. 

Ellen.     A  gem  of  high  art ! 
Wea.  It  is  rather  tall. 

Ellen.     Will  you  be  courteous,  and  the  curtain  raise? 
Wea.     Pleased  to  obey  you  :  I  remove  the  baize. 
(Raises    curtain.      The   PAINT    KING  discovered,  looking 

intently  upon  the  statue  as  a  part  of  the  picture.) 
Pal.     Horror ! 

Wea.  'Tis  he,  himself! 

Ellen.  Isn't  it  splendid? 

How  nicely  in  it  light  and  shade  are  blended  ! 
Pal.     The  color  in  the  face  is  rather  weak. 
Wea.     The  painter's  failiug  is  too  much  of  cheek. 
Ellen.     Now,  isn't  it  a  duck  ? 
Wea.  It  skill  doth  lack. 

This  duck  of  yours  is  but  a  canvas-back. 
Pal.     Quick,  close  the  curtain,  Weasel. 
Ellen.  What  for,  pray? 

Pal.     That  I  may  drag  this  filthy  daub  away,  — 
Bestow  it  in  some  corner  out  of  sight. 

Ellen.     Nay,  it  has  found   a  corner  in   my  heart  to- 
night. 

Pal.     Now,  quit  your  ravings,  and  obey  my  will : 
No  more  your  little  head  with  nonsense  fill ; 
But  make  one  of  the  party  I  have  planned, 
And  take  Prince  Weazel  for  your  him'band.- 


174  BONBONS. 

Wea.     Oh,  do,  dear  Ellen,  with  me  share  my  lot ! 
This  heart  is  blasted  if  I  have  you  not. 

Pal.     With  such  a  blasted  lot  of  blarney,  sure 
You  can't  refuse  to  share  his  little  store. 

Ellen.     Ay,  but  I  do.     Your  prince   doth   make   me 

faint, 

He's  so  much  troubled  with  the  heart  complaint. 
Hark  you,  my  brother:  if  from  out  that  frame 
Could  step  the  youth  who  bears  an  humble  name, 
I'd  go  with  him,  your  guardian  will  to  spite. 

Pal.     You  wouldn't. 

Ellen.  Yes,  I  would,  this  very  night. 

Wea.     Why,  this  is  nonsense  ! 

Pal.  Foolish  girl,  forbear! 

Ellen.     Ay,  aud  I'd  marry  him.     I  would,  I  swear ! 

(Gong.     P.  K.  steps  from  frame.) 

P.  K.     Fair    Ellen,    thank   you.       What   you    freely 

proffer 
I'll  freely  take,  and  here  embrace  the  offer. 

Pal.     Hallo  !     Here's  witchcraft ! 

Ellen.  Do  my  eyes  deceive? 

I  quake  with  fear  ! 

Wea.  My  friend,  you'd  better  leave. 

Ellen.     Can  this  be  Norval?     I  am  much  afraid 
I've  been  deceived. 

P.  K.  You  have,  mistaken  maid, 

By  an  old  character  I  oft  assume. 

I  am  the  Paint  King.  (Gong  )  Norval's  my  nom  deplume. 
Wea.     It  is  no  feather  in  your  cap,  I'll  swear. 

Ellen.  .  Mercy  !     Mercy  !     O  Mr.  Paint  King,  spare  ! 


BONBONS.  175 

P.  K.     By  your  own  swearing  you  are  mine,  fair  Nell ; 
So  to  your  loving  brother  say  farewell. 
Nothing  can  save  you  from  my  magic  art : 
She  is  the  Paiut  King's  prize,  who  gives  her  heart. 

Ellen.     Oh,  this  is  horrible  !     What  shall  I  do? 

Wea.     Get  up  a  faint,  and  that  may  bring  him  to. 

P.  K.     The  dew  is  falling. 

Wca.  Do  fall  in  a  swoon. 

Pal.     Yes,  give  him  fits  :  'twill  spoil  his  honeymoon. 

(Song  and  Chorus.      Air,  "  Shoo  Fly") 

0  dear,  0  dear,  my  head  does  ring, 
0  dear,  0  dear,  my  head  does  ring, 

0  dear,  0  dear,  my  head  does  ring, 
My  senses  now  are  on  the  wing. 

I  feel,  I  feel,  I  feel  a  swimming  in  my  head. 

My  senses  now  go  spinning  round, 

I'm  going  out  of  my  head. 

Paint  King,  don't  bother  me;  Paint  King,  don't  bother  me; 
Paint  King,  don't  bother  me,  for  I'm  going  to  faint  away. 

1  feel,  I  feel,  I  feel,  I  feel  I'm  going  to  faint; 
I  feel,  I  feel,  I  feel,  I  feel  I'm  going  to  faint. 

(Falls  into  PAINT  KING'S  arms.     Quick  curtain.) 


ACT    SECOND. 


-  COSTUMES. 

FAIR  ELLEN.     Same  as  before. 

WEAZEL  and  PALATINE.  Long  Shaker  coats  and  broad-brimmed 
hats,  umbrellas,  concealing  their  "studio"  dresses. 

PAINT  KING.  Long  purple  robe,  purple  smoking:cap,  con- 
cealing his  "  studio  "  dress. 


176  BONBONS. 

Dummy  figures  of  Fair  Ellen  and  the  Paint  Kin-;  arc  required 
for  this  scene,  made  to  look  as  much  like  them  as  possible. 

SCENE.  —  PAINT  KING'S  studio.  At  back  representation 
of  a  caldron,  marked  "  OIL,"  which  conceals  sofa  used  in 
the  studio  scene  •  R.,  a  large  canvas  frame,  on  which  are 
painted  nine  cat's  heads,  labeled  "  THE  NINE  MEWSES  ; " 
L.,  another  frame,  covered,  representing  a  canvas  pre- 
pared for  painting,  —  the  upper  half  should  be  arranged 
to  let  down.  ELLEN,  seated  c. 

Ellen.     O  champions  of  my  sex  !  do  drop  a  tear, 
As  that  drop  rising  shows  me  sitting  here. 
This  dark  and  gloomy  cavern,  that  you  see, 
Of  Woman's  Rights  is  all  that's  left  to  me. 
I've  nobly  struggled,  but  defeat  befell, 
And  of  my  air-built  castles  made  this  cell. 
Imprisoned  here,  I  mourn  my  hapless  fate, 
And,  almost  dying,  on  my  woes  dilate. 
This  lonesome  place  of  joy  is  void  and  null, — 
What  ho  !     Without  !     That  "  ho  "  is  very  dull. 
My  voice  is  weak  ;  and  yet  I  will  be  brave, 
And  stave  my  fears  off  with  a  joyous  stave. 

(Song,  ELLEN.     Selected.) 

From  my  misfortune,  now,  dear  misses,  take 

This  warning:  Don't  acquaintance  make 

With  picturesque  young  men  when  passing  by  ; 

But  look  upon  their  wares  with  wary  eye. 

Though  poor  their  garb,  when  they've  addresses  paid, 

Their  suits  are  poorer  yet,  though  custom-made. 


BONBONS.  177 

(Duet,  PAL.  and  WEA.,  R.,  and  enter.) 

To  the  rescue  now  we  go, 

Hunki-dorum,  doodle  dum  day! 
The  base  Paint  King  to  overthrow, 

Hunki  dorum,  doodle  dum  day! 
Peaceful  garbs  about  us  flow, 

Hunki  dorum,  doodle  dum  day! 
Yet  we're  prepared  for  war  below, 

Hunki  dorum,  doodle  dum  day! 

We  come  to  set  Fair  Ellen  free, 
The  Paint  King's  power  to  break,  you  see; 
And,  for  the  wrongs  endured  by  her, 
A  swift  revenge  to  take,  be  sure. 
To  the  rescue,  then,  we  go,     • 
Hunki  dorum  doodle  dum  day,  &c. 

Ellen.     Methinks  I've  heard  those  foreign  airs  before  : 
"  Hunki  dorum,"  —  that's  Italian,  sure. 
They  must  be  Strakosch's  singers,  often  round 
With  opera,  operating  where  stray  cash  is  found. 
Gentle  musicians,  pass  on. 

Wea.  Bless  my  eyes  ! 

Her  long-lost  brother  she  don't  recognize. 
Behold  your  brother,  Pal. 

Pal.  'Tis  palpable,  my  sister, 

I  am  your  loving  brother. 

Ellen.  Don't  palaver,  mister, 

My  brother  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  you. 
He  is  a  blonde. 

Wea.  This  blonder  makes  him  blue. 

Nay,  nay,  fair  maid,  'tis  Palatiue. 

Pal.  Ne'er  doubt  it. 

I'll  prove  my  claim.  . 

Ellen.  Then  quickly  set  about  it. 

12 


178  BONBONS. 

Pal.     Who  took  you  from  your  cradle  bed, 
And  gently  by  the  hand  you  led,  — 
Then  let  you  fall  and  break  your  head? 

Ellen.     My  brother ! 

Pal.     Who  always  filled  your  little  cup, 
When  at  the  table  you  did  sup, 
Then  —  boldly  took,  and  drank  it  up? 
.    Ellen.     My  brother! 

Enough  !     One  touch  of  Nature  sets  me  right. 
Brother ! 

Pal.        Sister ! 

Wea.  This  is  a  touching  sight. 

Pal.     Now,  sister,  that  our  joyful  meeting's  over, 
Allow  me  to  present  your  gallant  lover. 

Wea.     Still  your  devoted. 

Ellen.  Are  you,  really  ! 

Then  your  devotion  I  shall  test  severely : 
For  I've  had  wrongs  — 

Wea.  Confess  your  sorrows,  sweet. 

Ellen.     He  doesn't  give  me  half  enough  to  eat ; 
Keeps  me  on  mouldy  bread  — 

Wea.  That  staff's  unsteady 

To  one  so  finely  moulded  and  well-bred  already. 

Ellen.     Water's  the  only  liquor  that  I  swallow 
To  liquidate  my  thirst ! 

Wea.  Why,  Avhat  a  fellow  ! 

I'll  tear  him  limb  from  limb. 

Pal.  That's  Bowery,  you  see. 

Ellen.    Oh,  do,  dear  prince  !  and  send  his  trunk  to  me. 
This  hand  is  yours  when  his  quietus'  made. 

Wea.     My  soul's  in  arms,  and  eager  for  the  trade. 
Where  is  the  villain? 


BONBONS.  179 

P.  K.     (Outside.)     Now,  my  hearty, 
Fire  up  the  engine. 

Ellen.  Hush  !     Here  comes  the  party 

Pal.     Oh,  mercy  ! 

Wea.  Dod-rot  it,  if  this  is  he, 

Then  too  much  steam  he's  getting  up  for  me. 

Ellen.  Ingenuous  youth,  the  Paint  King  comes  this  way. 
Now,  tear  him,  prince  !  . 

Pal.  We'd  better  tear  away  ! 

Wea.     That's  my  opinion,  seasoned  with  a  moral, 
That  men  of  peace  should  never  seek  a  quarrel. 

Ellen.     What,  cowards  !  would  you  fly  and  leave  me 

thus  ? 
Where  is  your  boasted  valor? 

Pal.  Don't  you  make  a  fuss  : 

'Tis  always  wise  to  choose  the  better  part. 
Wea.     And  that's  —  discretion. 

Ellen.  Then  you'd  better  start. 

You'll  meet  the  Paint  King  as  you  pass  the  -door, 
Who  two  whole  men  of  peace  will  cut  in  four. 

Pal.     Your  words  are  sharp. 

Wea.  So  cutting,  it  is  clear 

We'd  better  stop  and  face  the  music  here. 
(Chorus,  "  3fasaniello") 

Behold  the  Paint  King  swiftly  coming! 

Though  hard  our  lot,  we'll  face  the  foe. 
To  spoil  his  game,  and  send  him  humming, 

We'll  save  the  maid,  and  Isiy  him  low. 
He  comes !    He  comes !    Now  courage  show ! 

Take  heed,  and  whisper  low! 
Look  out  and  trap  him  unaware : 

Take  heed,  and  whisper  low! 
The  foe  we  seek  we'll  soon,  we'll  soon  ensnare, 
The  foe  we  seek,  &c. 


180  BONBONS. 

(PAL.  and  WEA.  conceal  themselves  R.  and  L.) 
Enter  PAINT  KING,  R. 

P.  K.    Fame's  a  good  thing,  either  in  rhyme  or  reason  ; 
A  cure,  for  many  ills  when  taken  in  season. 
'T\vas  often  landed  by  that  famous  "poic" 
Whom  Mrs.  Stowe  has  tried  to  prove  no  stoic,  — 
A  bold  endeavor,  savoring  of  the  frantic, 
For  Byron  can't  be  drowned  by  the  "  Atlantic." 
Vain  the  attempt  so  strong  a  "  Childe  "  to  smother, 
And  fame's  not  made  Byronuing  down  another. 
Yet  fame  is  sought  for,  and  so  I,  to-night, 
Would  fain  secure  it  with  a  patent  right. 
With  this  philosophy:  In  Modern  Art, 
Our  foremost  painters  win  the  public  heart 
By  mixing  colors  from  all  sorts  of  earth, 
And  from  these  meaner  clays  give  fancy  birth. 
Bedeck  our  studios  with  Nature's  graces, 
And  charm  our  senses  with  bewitching  faces. 
If  such  results  from  poor  old  earth  are  gained, 
What  grander  triumphs  yet  may  be  attained 
By  pounding  up  our  models,  which  combine, 
Of  course,  all  colors  which  we  think  so  fine? 
That's  new  philosophy ! 

Ellen.  It's  old  and  loose. 

To  get  the  golden  eggs,  you'd  kill  the  goose. 

P.  K.     Aha  !   Fair  Ellen,  meet  we  once  again  ? 
Your  pretty  face  shall  make  this  matter  plain. 

Ellen.     You  are  a  villain  ! 

P.  K.  Prithee,  say  no  more. 

Ellen.     You  vowed  you  loved  me. 


BONBONS.  181 

P-  K.  Nay,  'twas  you  who  swore. 

The  course  of  true  love  ne'er  runs  true,  I  "rant. 

'  O 

Ellen.     Then,  if  you  love  me,  take  me  to  my  aunt. 

P.  K.     She's  not  at  home. 

Ellen.  My  uncle's  ! 

P-  K.  He's  quite  sick. 

Ellen.    Then  take  me  somewhere,  and  do  take  me  quick. 
I  shall  go  mad  ! 

P.  K.  Then  you'll  go  somewhere,  surely. 

Nay,  nay,  Fair  Ellen,  here  you  stay  securely. 
There  is  no  other  course. 

'Tis  quite  well  known 
You  would  be  loved  for  yourself  alone. 

Ellen.     I  would,  I  would  !     It  is  my  fond  desire. 

P.  K.     Your  wood  is  very  green  :    it  should  be  dryer. 
Well,  I  will  take  you  for  yourself. 

Ellen.  You  will  ? 

P.  K.     As  an  expounder  of  my  artist  skill. 
Behold  you  brazen  dish  !      'Tis  filled  with  oil. 

Ellen.     This  is  some  wicked  snare. 

P.  K.  Nay,  don't  recoil. 

Beneath  are  mighty  wheels. 

Ellen.  There's  mischief  here  : 

Something's  revolving  'neath  that  wicked  sneer. 

P.  K.    Quick  tripping  hammers  there  unceasing  pound. 

Ellen.     It  is  no  wedding  trip  on  which  they're  bound  ! 

P.  K.     If  thou  wouldst  have  me  paint  the  home 
To  which  I'd  bear  thee,  this  way  come. 

(Points  to  caldron.} 

Ellen.     Nay,  base  dissembler,  your  wild  jestings  cease  ! 
No  Yankee  girl  could  find  a  home  in  Greece. 


182  BONBONS. 

P.  K.     Unbending  maiden,  you  must  straightway  go 
To  explore  the  mysteries  which  lie  below. 
JMy  canvas  waits  for  colors. 

Ellen.  What  care  I  ? 

P.  K.    Your  charms  and  graces  must  my  wants  sup- 

p]y- 

I  have  an  order  for  a  fancy  sketch, 
And  want  your  picture. 

Ellen.  You  can't  have  it,  wretch. 

P.  K.     Ay,  but  I  must.     (Seizes  her  hands.) 

Ellen.  Unhand  me,  villain  ! 

P.  K.  Don't  complain. 

Nothing  is  gained  by  this  unhandsome  strain. 

Ellen.     Oh,  spare  me  !     Spare  me  !     I  am  weak  and 

faint. 
Life  is  so  short ! 

P.  K.  And  I  am  short  of  paint : 

So  you  must  go  where  welcome  waits  for  you 
Within  that  oil-well  we  arc  coming  to. 
'Tis  sweet  for  art  to  die,  my  artless  maid : 
Plunge  boldly  in,  and  do  not  be  afraid. 
Time  swiftly  flies  ! 

Ellen.  Then  I  will  try  a  race 

'Gainst  time,  and  swiftly  fly  this  place.      (Buns  off,  R.) 

P.  K.     Nay,  not  so  fast,  for  you  awake  my  wrath : 
Naught's  so  refreshing  as  a  cooling  bath. 

(Follows  her  off,  and  quickly  returns  with  a  "  dummy," 
which  he  flings  into  the  oil-caldron.) 

She  sinks  !      She's  gone  !   and,  free  from  toil, 
A  martyred  heroine  plunges  into  oil. 


BONBONS.  183 

Farewell,  sweet  maid  :   when  next  your  face  I  view, 
'Twill  give  much  color  to  th,e  deed  I  do.      (Exit,  R.) 

(PALATINE  and  WEAZEL  approach  from  R.  and  L.,  and 

look  into  the  "  OIL  "  caldron.) 

Pal     AVeazel ! 
Wca.  Palatine ! 

Pal.  The  axe  has  dropped  ! 

Wca.     Methinks,  my  friend,  it's   time   this  thing  was 

stopped. 

Pal.     Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there  ! 
Wea.  It  was  severe. 

Pal.     He's  made  a  sardine  of  my  sister  dear. 
Wea.     The  knell  of  all  my  hopes  he's  badly  sounded. 
Pal.     My  little  sister  Nell  he's  gone  and  drownded. 
Wea.     To  be  so  foully  wronged  !    It's  quite  distressing. 
Pal.     She  wasn't  a  salad,  though  so  fond  of  dressing. 
I  shall  go  wild  with  grief! 

Wea.  You  do  look  bad. 

Pal.     Pray,  are  there  no  detectives  to  be  had? 
Wea.     I  scarce  detect  your  meaning.    What  for,  pray  ? 
You'll  want  the  coroner  without  delay. 
Pal.     Oh,  I  did  love  her  so  ! 

Wea.  That  I  don't  doubt. 

Pal.     Get  some  official,  quick,  and  fish  her  out ! 
Wea.     A   brother's    love    so    pure,   now   who   would 

mock  it? 
Pal.     I  want  her,  for  she's  got  her  bank-book  in  her 

pocket. 

I  cannot  live  without  her ;  so,  dear  fellar. 
Just  end  my  troubles  with  this  umberella  ! 


184  BONBONS. 

Viea.     I  do  not  see  the  point ;  so,  Pal,  delay, 
And  keep  that  refuge  for  a  rajny  day. 
Dry  up  that  tear,  it  is  a  watery  waste : 
Reflect  at  leisure,  ere  you  die  in  haste. 
This  saucy  Paint  King  by  our  hands  must  die, 
And  with  his  life  we'll  end  his  sorceri. 
"Pal.     But  I  can't  see  it.     Oh,  this  bitter  cup  ! 

Wea.     Then  go  it  blind.     Revenge  shall  drink  it  up  ! 
lie  comes  again  ! 

Pal.  0  Christopher  !     Let's  travel. 

Wea.     Nay,  here  I  stick,  this  mystery  to  unravel. 
This  Paint  King  hankers  for  the  trump  of  Fame  : 
We'll  find  a  trump  to  block  his  little  game. 
{Conceal  themselves  as  before.} 

Enter  PAINT  KING,  R.,  with  pallette,  on  which  are  daubs 
of  paint,  and  brushes. 

P.  K.     White  for  the  brow  as  alabaster  pure, 
Yellow  for  golden  ringlets  sweeping  o'er, 
Vermilion  for  the  lips,  blue  for  the  eyes, 
All  hues  .and  colors  that  true  artists  prize 
So  quickly  gained  !     Now,  by  great  Julius  Cassar, 
This  rivals  Masser's  famous  Ice-Cream  Freezer! 
Now  to  the  test.     If  wisdom  guides  me  right, 
Great  Mumler's  photographs  are  out  of  sight. 

{Goes  to  canvas,  L.,  and  paints.     As  he  paints,  the  canvas 
opens,  disclosing  FAIR  ELLEN.) 

(Song,  WEA.     "  Stitt  so  gently.") 

Still  so  gently  o'er  him  stealing, 

What  his  pallette  is  revealing; 

Spite  of  peril  I've  a  feeling 

That  I'll  block  him,  quickly  block  his  little  game. 


BONBONS.  185 

P.  K.     Fly  fast,  good  brush  :  my  colors  show 
Beneath  your  touch  a  very  bristling  row. 

(Song,  WEA.     Repeat  as  before,  and  add — ) 
There's  another  brush  to  warm  thee, 
0  Paint  King,  I'd  inform  thee! 

"  Ten  Little  Injuns." 

Four  little  paint  cakes  lying  there  I  see, 
Steal  away  one,  and  then  there  are  three : 
Four  little  paint  cakes,  one  a  cake  of  blue, 
Steal  away  that,  and  no  eyes  for  you. 
One  little  paint  cake,  two  little  paint  cakes, 

Three  little  paint  cakes  stay. 
Fourth  little  paint  cake,  blue  little  paint  cake, 

Pretty  little  paint  cake,  I  take  you. 

{Removes  paint  from  pallette.) 

P.  K.     Now    triumph's    certain !       One    touch,    and 

behold, 

In  liquid  blue  Fair  Ellen's  eyes  unfold. 
Confusion  !     Where's  my  blue? 

Pal.  Mark  how  he's  shook  : 

He  seems  quite  ill. 

Wea.  He  has  a  bilious  look. 

It  was  a  bitter  pill  for  him  to  face. 
P.  K.     I'm  lost !  lost !  lost ! 

Pal.  It  struck  a  hollow  place. 

Wea.     Nay,  you  are  not  lost,  for  we  have  found  you 

out.      (Draws  cutlass  from  his  umbrella.) 
Pal.     With  all  the  wickedness  you've  been  about. 

(Draws  cutlass  from  his  umbrella.)      (Canvas  shuts.) 
P.  K.     And  who  are  you,  that,  with  defiant  air, 
Unbidden  seek  the  Paiiit  King  in  his  lair? 


186  BONBONS. 

Your  garbs  are  peaceful,  but  your  manners  rough. 

Wea.     Humbug ! 

Pal.  Silence  !     We  have  heard  enough. 

I  um  Count  Palatine,  that  lady's  brother, 
The  little  goose  whom  you  did  lately  smother. 

Wea.     What's  sauce  for  goose  is  sauce  for  gander  too  : 
You  martyred  her  ;  we  come  to  martyr  you. 
"With  these  good  swords  we  will  your  picture  spoil. 

Pal.     Nay,  hadn't  we  better  finish  it  in  oil  ? 

P.  K.     Whose   funeral   is   this?      Hadn't   you   better 

wait  ? 

For  I  would  have  a  voice  in  this  debate. 
As  I'm  the  villain  of  this  tragic  play, 
Poetic  justice,  could  it  have  its  way, 
Would  lay  me  low  ;  or  speaking  by  the  card, 
Foil  vice,  and  give  to  virtue  its  reward. 
But  Boucicault  gives  vice  a  foremost  place, 
And  bids  it  triumph  in  Formosa's  case. 
Fate  shows  that  strength,  not  justice,  's  sure  to  win  ; 
So,  while  I  have  the  strength,  I'll  just  pitch  in. 
With  flats  and  sharps  defiantly  before  us, 

(To  leader  of  orchestra  or  pianist.) 
You  sound  the  pitch,  and  we  will  pound  the  chorus. 

(Combat,  to  the  tune  of  "  The  Ar^vil  Chorus."  PAINT 
KING  disarmed.  They  seize  him  and  struggle  off,  L.  ; 
immediately  return  with  the  dummy  of  the  PAINT  KING, 
which  they  throw  into  oil-caldron ;  then  exit,  R.  and  L. 
Side  scene-pieces  and  caldron  disappear,  and  discover 
CHROME  upon  sofa,  just  awakening. 


BONBONS.  1 87 

Chrome.  Give  me  another  sword  !  Quick  !  I  smother  ! 
I  die!  (JFa/ces.)  Hallo!  What's  this?  The  studio, 
Easel's  pallette,  and  Pallette's  easel, — but  where's  the 
oil  ?  Where's  — 

Enter  PALLETTE.  L.,  EASEL,  R.%  in  costume  of  first  part. 

Palhttc.  Confound  you,  Chrome,  you've  wakened  the 
whole  neighborhood. 

Easel.  The  police  are  here  in  full  force.  What's  the 
matter  with  you? 

Chrome.  But  where's  the  picture?  Where's  the 
patent  machine?  Where's  the  oil? 

Palldle.     Why,  the  man's  crazy  ! 

Easel.  Come,  come !  Wake  up,  Chrome !  You've 
been  dreaming. 

Chrome.     Well,  I  believe  I  have,  prince. 

Pallette.     Hallo  !     Easel,  you've  got  a  title. 

Chrome.  But  look  here.  How  long  have  I  been 
asleep  ? 

Pallette.  About  an  hour.  What  have  you  been 
dreaming? 

Easel.     Of  your  famous  Paint  King  —  hey? 

Chrome.  Paint  King!  Have  I  been  dreaming? 
Ain't  you  the  captain  of  the  Silk-Stocking  Nine?  Didn't 
you  get  stung  in  the  eye? 

Pallette.  Oh,  nonsense !  Wake  up !  It's  time  you 
were  about  your  painting,  —  your  great  sensational  paint- 
ing. 

Chrome.  Nonsense !  I've  had  enough  sensation  to 
last  me  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  existence.  But  where's 
Fair  Ellen  ? 


188  BONBON-1. 

Easel.     And  who's  Fair  Ellen,  pray? 
Marie.      (Outside,  L.) 

"  Come  buy.  come  buy  bonbons,"  &c. 
Enter,  L. 

Chrome.     Ah  !  here  she  is.     No  :  it's  the  French  girl. 

Marie.  Ah,  Messieurs,  you  have  made  mon  pere's 
heart  jump  wiz  ze  joy  it  feel  when  I  "bring  him  ze  green- 
backs zat  you  pay  me  for  my  bonbons.  Ah  !  I  sail 
uevar  forget  ze  kindness  of  ze  great  American  people. 
Nevar !  Nevar !  You  have  poured  ze  oil  upon  ze 
troubled  vaters  of  his  soul. 

Chrome.  Oil !  Ah,  she  little  knows  how  deeply  she's 
been  into  it.  Marie,  that  last  bonbon  of  yours  has  com- 
pletely cured  me  of  any  desire  to  speculate  in  sensation. 

Easel.     But  your  great  picture? 

Chrome.  Is  finished.  As  Byron  says,  "  I  had  a 
dream  which  was  not  all  a  dream."  Easel,  Pallette, 
you're  right.  Nature's  the  true  guide  to  lead  the  artist 
on  to  grand  achievements  ;  for  the  scenes  she  spreads  to 
his  enraptured  gaze  have  sense  and  substance,  while  sen- 
sation's but  a  maddening  dream,  whose  shifting  colors 
fade  before  the  artist's  brush  can  fasten  them  upon  the 
canvas. 

Easel.  Well,  Chrome,  I  do  believe  you've  been  dream- 
injr. 

Pallette.  He's  had  the  nightmare.  That's  what's  the 
matter. 

Chrome.  Let's  stick  to  nature  ;  for  sensation's  sure  to 
lead  us  into  oil  —  I  mean  hot  water. 

Easel.     But  sensation's  a  good  thing  in  its  place. 


BONBONS.  189 

Chrome.     But  a  little  of  it  goes  a  great  way. 

Pallette.     So  you  intend  to  give  it  up  altogether? 

Chrome.  No  ;  for  it  has  served  to  while  away  an  hour 
with  me.  And,  when  we  are  tired  of  work,  we'll  send 
for  Marie,  here,  to  amuse  us. 

Easel.     With  her  Costume  Bonbons.     That's  good. 

Marie.  Oui,  oui !  I  sail  come  avec  plaisir ;  and  I 
vill  bring  my  bonbons  ;  and,  when  you  are  tired  of  work, 
I  vill  sing,  — 

"  Come  buy,  come  buy  bonbons,"  &c. 
EASEL,  K.  CHROME  AND  MARIE.  PALLETTE,  L. 

(Curtain  falls.) 


MUSICAL   AND   DRAMATIC. 

0 1ST  IB  O  IN"  S. 

PART    FIRST. 

THE     .A.  IR,  T  I  S  T  S. 


CHROME i  ( 

EASEL >  Amateur  Painters.  ? 

PALLETTE >  ( 

MARIF,.  —  A  French  "  Bonbon"  Seller 


"With  the  following  incidentals :  — 

SONG.  —  "A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea" PALLETTE. 

SONG.  —  "  Those  blessed  Rheumatics" E.YSML. 

RECITATION.  —  The  Red  Jacket CHROME. 

BALLAD MARIE. 


PART    SECOND. 


THE     PAI^T     KIJtfG. 

A  very  free  dramatization  of  Washington  Allston's  poem,  in  two  acts,  full 
of  moving  accidents  and  incidents,  produced  with  all  the  splendor  of  ma- 
chinery and  scenery  that  a  limited  income  would  admit  of. 
FAIR  ELLEN,  anxious  to  be  loved  for  herself  alone  .................  MARIE. 

PRINCE  WEAZEN,  affected  by  her  possessions,  and  anxious  to 

possess  her  affections  ..........................  ............  EASEL. 

COUNT  PALATINE,  the  lady's  brother,  with  an  eye  for  the  na- 

tional game  .............................................  PALLETTE. 

PAINT  KING,  disturber  of  the  Piece  ...............................  CHROME. 

ACT  1.  EXTERIOR  OF  COUNT  PALATINE'S  RESIDENCE,  WITH  A  VIEW 
OF  THE  OPEN  BAY.  —  A  fair  soul,  solus.  SONG.  —  Ellen.  '-Sitting  in  the 
Bay.''  The  Paint  King  0:1  his  travels.  Nature  and  art.  A  gc-ntle  hint. 
The  silk-stocking  nine.  See  the  conquering  heroes  come.  A  bat  in  time 
saves  nine.  A  blind  b'at.  SONG.  —  I'alatinc,  •'  The  leathern-clad  base-ball 
we  catch  on  the  fly."  An  interruption.  SONG.  —  \Feazel,  -'I'm  captain  you 
know  of  the  silk-stocking  ni'ie."  The  coming  man.  SO\G.  —  Ellen,  "  The 
shades  of  night."  Woman's  rights.  A  moving  picture  Readings  from 
the  poets.  A  woman's  oath,  and  what  came  of  it.  Tragic  denouement. 
CHORUS.  —  ".Paint  King,  don't  bother  me,"  to  a  new  tune. 

ACT  2.  THE  PAINT  KING'S  STUDIO.  —  The  deceived  Ellen.  DUET.  — 
Weasel  and  I'alatine,  ''To  the  rescue  now  we  fly."  The  recognition.  A 
touching  picture.  Valor  and  discretion.  C.'IORUS.  —  Ellen,  We  i  eel,  and 
Palatine,  "  Behold  the  Paint  King  quickly  coming."  The  plot  unfolds  itself. 
The  patent  machine.  The  plot  thickens  in  oil.  The  struggle,  and  the 
dreadful  doom  of  the  deceived  damsel.  The  picture.  The  Paint  King  at 
work.  SONG.  —  Palatine  and  Wsazel,  '  Still  so  gently  from  him  stealing.' 
Now  all  looks  blue,  and  now  it  don't.  Foiled.  The  struggle,  and  the  Paint 
King's  painful  predicament. 

TRANSFORMATION   SCENE, 
(of  course),  and  Home  Again. 


LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


AN    ALLEGORY. 


FOR  FEMALE  CHARACTERS  ONLY. 


CHARACTERS. 
LIGHT-HEART,  the  pilgrim. 
CONSCIENCE,  the  guide. 
FRIVOLITA,  queen  of  the  Valley  of  Pleasure. 
MIRTH,  SPORT,  FOLLY,  FALSEHOOD,  SHAME,  and  other  dwellers 
in  the  valley. 

CELESTA,  guardian  of  the  Heights  of  Wisdom. 
REASON,  RELIGION,  and  other  dwellers  on  the  heights. 

This  allegory  is  particularly  designed  for  school  exhibi- 
tions. A  chorus  of  "  divellers  on  the  heights  "  should  be 
seated  on  the  platform,  R.  Chorus  of  "  dwellers  in  the 
valley"  L.  An  open  stage  should  be  left  between,  for 
the  speakers. 

SCENE.  —  A  place  where  two  roads  meet. 

(Solo  and  chorus.     Air,  "  Come  forward  with  pleasure") 

(Daring  which,  enter,  L.,  FRIVOLITA,  MIRTH,  SPORT,  and 

other  dwellers  in  the  valley.) 

Kriv.  Bright  spirits  of  pleasure, 

.  With  light  hearts  advance, 
And  join  in  the  measure 
Of  song  and  of  dance. 

Chants.  •—  Bright  spirits,  &c. 
191 


192  LIGHTHEART'ri   PILGRIMAGE. 

Friv.    With  roses  upspringing  your  footsteps  to  greet, 

While  sweet  woodland  songsters  their  welcomes  repeat, 
Bright  spirits  of  pleasure  with  gay  hearts  advance, 
And  join  with  full  heart  in  the  song  and  the  dance. 
Chorus.  —  Bright  spirits,  &c. 

Frivolita.  Thanks,  joyous  spirits  :  you  our  bidding  greet 
With  rare  obedience.     Our  most  fair  retreat, 
Pleasure's  bright  valley,  wakens  to  new  life, 
Warmed  by  your  hearts,  with  glee  and  gladness  rife. 
All's  bright  and  happy  in  our  fairy  home, 
And  joy  attends  our  feet  where'er  we  roam, 
Save  on  this  spot,  where  heartless,  cruel  fate 
Marks  daily  conflicts  to  annoy  my  state. 
Pilgrims  of  life,  who,  crowding  thickly,  press 
In  search  of  havens  of  true  happiness, 
With  bounding  footsteps  hurrying  o'er  a  road, 
Which,  till  it  reaches  here,  is  smooth  and  broad, 
Now  pause,  perplexed  to  find  the  way  divide 
To  two  strange  paths,  that  stretch  on  either  side. 
One  leads  o'er  rocky,  dark,  and  dismal  steeps : 
There  false  Celesta  watchful  vigil  keeps. 
The  other,  winding  down,  'mid  groves  and  flowers, 
Conducts  the  pilgrim  to  our  blissful  bowers. 
Quick  choice  were  made,  where  glowing  beauties  sweep 
In  happy  contrast  to  a  toilsome  steep, 
But  that  Celesta,  with  her  polished  art, 
Weaves  a  mysterious  influence  o'er  the  heart, 
Robbing  my  sceptre  of  its  power  to  bless  % 

The  longing  pilgrim  with  true  happiness. 

(Music,  piano.) 

But  hark  !  she  comes  :  that  mournful,  solemn  strain 
Proclaims  Celesta,  with  her  sober  train. 


LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE.  193 

(Chorus.     During  which   e.nter,    R.,    CELESTA,  •REASON, 
RELIGION,  and  other  dwellers  on  the  heights.) 

(^4tV,  "  The  quiet  night") 

Adown  the  heights  advancing, 

In  marshalled  ranks  we  come, 
To  guide  the  toiling  pilgrim 

To  Wisdom's  peaceful  home. 
In  Duty's  footsteps  treading, 
Nor  care  nor  danger  dreading, 

To  battle  for  her  rights, 
.   To  battle  for  her  rights, 
For  Wisdom's  rights,  for  Wisdom's  rights. 

Celesta.     Frivolita,  ouce  more  we  meet  in  strife 
In  this  marked  spot,  upon  the  path  of  life. 
Upon  the  road  of  youth  I  just  espied 
An  eager  pilgrim,  full  of  faith  and  pride. 
Soon  must  she  reach  this  spot :  here  choice  must  make, 
Which  of  two  roads,  the  right  or  left,  to  take. 
I  marked  her  face :  'twas  earnest,  thoughtful,  bright, 
Left  to  herself,  she'll  surely  choose  the  right. 
Upon  her  path  set  not  your  glittering  snares 
Of  senseless  joys  to  trap  her  unawares, 
But  let  her  freely  pass  up  Wisdom's  road, 
To  rest  securely  in  her  grand  abode. 

Frivolita.     Nay,  false  Celesta,  thine's  a  foolish  tale : 
True  happiness  is  found  within  our  vale, 
Where  mirth  and  laughter,  revel,  dance,  and  song, 
On  lightsome  pinions  move  the  groves  among; 
And  not  in  Wisdom'^  staid  aud  sober  hall, 
Where  irksome  duties  joyous  hearts  appall. 
They  who  would  drink  at  Happiness'  pure  fount, 
Adown  the  vale  must  glide,  not  climb  the  mount. 
13 


194  LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Gay,  smiling  Pleasure  I  pronounce  the  queen 
Of  joys  unnumbered,  happiness  supreme. 
In  her  just  cause  I  throw  the  gauntlet  down, 
Prepared  to  win  this  pilgrim  for  her  crown. 

Celesta,.     Firm  in  the  faith  that  Wisdom's  ways  are 

true, 

Fearless  I  arm,  your  temptings  to  subdue. 
Throw  round  the  pilgrim  all  your  flowery  spells ; 
Bring  Mirth  and  Laughter  from  their  echoing  cells : 
I'll  meet  you  with  the  pure,  unsullied  joys 
That  sober  Wisdom  quietly  employs. 
Calm,  clear'-eyed  Reason,  with  her  watchful  care  ; 
Spotless  Religion^  with  her  earnest  prayer,  — 
These  be  my  champions  in  the  coming  fight : 
Marshal  your  force  ;  let  Justice  guard  the  right. 

(  CJiorus.     During  ivhich  all  march  off,  —  FRIVOLITA  and 
attendants,  L.,  CELESTA  and  attendants,  R.) 

(Air,  "•  Soldiers'  Chorus^'  —  FAUST*) 

Arm  you  to  fight  for  the  queen  you  prizej 

la  whose  kingdom  true  happiness  lies. 

Just  is  our  cause,  and  steadfast  we  stand : 

Yes,  ready  to  fight,  or  ready  to  die,  at  her  command. 

(Semi-chorus,  CELESTA  and  attendants.) 

Who  lacks  courage  to  dare  at  Wisdom's  call? 
.  Who  would  falter  or  quail  till  her  foes  shall  fall  ? 

(Semi-chorus,  FRIVOLITA  and  attendants.) 

Who  would  turn  from  a  queen  so  loving  and  true, 
When  foes  would  assail  the  fair  fame  of  the  vale 
So  fondly  we  view  ? 
Chorus.  —  Arm  you,  &c. 


LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE.  195 

Enter — C.,  if  possible ;  if  not,  R. —  LIGHTFOOT,  followed  by 
CONSCIENCE. 

Liglilfoot.    How  sweet  it  is,  life's  pleasant  path  to  tread  : 
Earth,  with  its  gayest  covering  thickly  spread ; 
Heaven  bending  o'er  me  in  its  cloudless  blue ; 
Flowers  springing  forth  in  ever-changing  hue  ; 
The  song  of  birds,  the  fragrant  scented  air,  — 
Gladness  and  beauty  stretching  everywhere  ! 
O  happy  pilgrim  !  that  such  joy  can  feel, 
Press  on  thv  journey  with  redoubled  zeal. 
But  here  I  pause  in  doubt ;  for,  stretching  wide, 
The  smooth,  straight  road  behind  doth  here  divide : 
This  to  the  right  in  tortuous  windings  creeps, 
O'er  rugged  paths,  up  high  and  rocky  steeps  ; 
While  to  the  left  a  grassy  path  doth  wend 
Through  groves  of  trees  that  intertwining  blend. 
The  left  I'll  take  :   its  light,  attractive  air. 
Foretells  the  passage  to  a  laud  more  fair. 

Conscience.      {Stepping  before  LiGHTllEART.) 
Lightheart,  forbear !  ere  you  a  step  advance, 
Consult  your  guide,  trust  no  unlucky  chance. 

Lightheart.     Who  dares  to  check  my  purpose?     Who 

are  you, 
That  start  up  in  the  path  I  would  pursue? 

Conscience.     A  true  and  trusty  friend,  —  Conscience, 

thy  guide, 

Whom  that  old  sage,  Good  Counsel,  at  thy  side 
Fastened  for  life  :  thy  "  better  part,"  indeed, 
To  warn,  to  aid,  to  succor  thee  in  need. 
In  search  of  happiness,  O  pilgrim  !  you 
These  wise  instructions  ever  keep  in  view : 


196  LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

All  outward  splendor  is  an  empty  show, 
A  glittering  crust,  that  hides  the  void  below. 
The  dullest  earth,  by  labor  dug  away, 
Brings  richest  jewels  to  the  light  of  day. 
Choose  wisely,  pilgrim.     Duty's  path  is  plain  : 
By  toilsome  steps  the  lofty  height  we  gain. 

Lightheart.     Thy  words   are  wise,  grave   Conscience, 

and  anon 

The  stern  and  rocky  path  I'll  journey  on  : 
Here  let  me  pause  a  while,  and  blissful  stand 
Upon  the  precincts  of  this  fairy  land. 

(Chorus,  L.     Air,  "  Come  again  to  father-land.") 

Come,  pilgrim,  join  our  happy  throng; 

Pilgrim,  come,  pilgrim,  come, 
Where  merry  dance  and  joyous  song 

Fill  our  fairy  home. 
No  dull  cares  our  hearts  assail: 

Pleasure's  spell  guards  us  well. 
Beautiful  our  festive  vale, 

More  than  tongue  can  tell. 

Come,  pilgrim,  &c. 

Lightheart.     What  joyful   sounds !     Sure,  Happiness 

dwells  there, 
Where  such  bewitching  notes  float  in  the  air. 

Conscience.   Trifler,  forbear  !  'Tis  Pleasure's  siren  call : 
Turn,  ere  its  mystic  power  your  heart  inthrall. 

(Chorus,  R.     Air,  "  The  Rose") 

Sweet  the  power  of  Wisdom's  spell, 

Lovingly  caressing, 
Shed,  with  free  and  lavish  hand, 
Peace  and  joy  within  our  land, 

Ever  richly  blessing. 
Peace  and  joy  within  our  laud, 

Ever  richly  blessing. 


LIGHIHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE.  197 

Conscience.     List  to  the  welcome  of  the  good  and  pure. 
Shun  false  allurements ;  Wisdom's  ways  secure. 

Lightheart.     'Tis  but  a  sober  strain  :  no  joy  it  brings, 
Such  as  from  Pleasure's  merrier  measure  springs. 
And  see  !  from  out  the  grove,  with  dancing  feet, 
Three  smiling  strangers  come  this  way  to  greet. 
Enter,  L.,  FRIVOLITA,  SPORT,  and  MIRTH. 

Frivolita.     Welcome,   young   pilgrim,    to   our   happy 

grove, 

Where  joyous  spirits  all  unfettered  rove  : 
Pleasure's  fair  laud,  in  all  attraction  bright, 
Shall  ope  to  thee  a  realm  of  sweet  delight. 
Enter  thou  in.     No  task  or  toil  severe, 
No  base,  depressing  cares,  annoy  thee  here ; 
But  never-ending  joys  from  sun  to  sun. 
Pilgrim,  thy  search  is  o'er,  thy  journey  done. 

Sport.     No  land  so  fair,  no  realm  so  bright  and  free, 
As  this,  that  stretches  welcomes  warm  to  thee. 
With  bounding  sports  we  quicken  sluggish  hours, 
Frolic  in  woodlands,  dance  amid  the  flowers, 
With  feasts  and  revelry  new  charms  array, 
And  at  the  founts  of  song  our  thirst  allay. 

Mirth.     Thrice  welcome,  pilgrim,  to  the  fairy  dells 
Where  Mirth's  resounding  laughter  joyous  swells. 
Grim  old  Sobriety  here  hides  his  face, 
And  shuns  the  spot  where  jovial  spirits  race 
In  madcap  glee.     Pilgrim,  life's  brightest  dress 
Is  gayety,  the  garb  of  happiness. 

Lightheart.     Thanks  for  your  welcome  :    surely  peace 

and  rest 
Await  me  in  a  land  so  richly  blest. 


198  LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Conscience.     Lightheart,  beware  of  Pleasure's  smiling 

face : 
Pitfalls  lie  hidden  'neath  this  seeming  grace. 

Enter,  R..  CELESTA,  REASON,  and  RELIGION. 

Celesta.     Young  stranger,  by  this  rude  and  rocky  road 
All  zealous  pilgrims  reach  the  grand  abode 
Where  Wisdom  dwells.     Her  pure  and  loving  arts 
Attract  her  subjects  and  subdae  their  hearts. 
The  way  is  stony,  rough,  and  hard  to  keep ; 
But  sturdy  Duty  aids  them  up  the  steep, 
While  streams  of  knowledge,  with  refreshing  play, 
Their  rugged  pathways  smooth,  their  thirsts  allay. 
Her  palace  gained,  the  pilgrimage  is  o'er : 
The  precious  treasures  of  her  bounteous  store 
For  them  are  poured,  and,  iu  refreshing  rest, 
Their  search  for  happiness  supremely  blest. 
If  thou  hast  strength  to  climb  the  mountain  side, 
Reason  will  counsel,  and  Religion  guide. 

Reason.     Lightheart,  she    speaketh  well ;    her  words 

are  true  : 

Straight  up  the  rugged  way  thy  search  pursue. 
I,  Reason,  counsel ;  for  no  joys  are  pure 
But  those  which  strong  Endeavor  can  secure. 
Pleasure's  smiles  fade  before  the  test  of  trial : 
Life's  first  great  victory's  gained  by  self-denial. 

Religion.     Take  me,  O  pilgrim  !   for  thy  trusty  guide 
In  thy  rough  journey  up  the  mountain  side  : 
I'll  fill  thy  soul  with  calm  and  holy  zeal, 
Sweet  ways  of  pleasantness  and  peace  reveal, 
With  holy  prayer  thy  weariness  dispel, 
With  Hope  uphold,  with  Faith  will  guide  thee  well. 


LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE.  11)9 

Conscience.     Be  wise,  O  Lightheart !  their  instructions 

heed  : 
They'll  serve  thee  well  in  darkest  hour  of  need. 

Frivolita.    Behold  how  bright  the  valley  spreads  below  ! 

TABLEAU.  —  FUIVOLITA  takes  LIGHTHE ART'S  left  hand 
with  her  right,  turns  her  to  L.,  and  points  off  ivith  her 
left  hand.  SPOUT  puts  her  left  arm  around  LIGHT- 
HEART'S  waist,  and  points  L.  with  her  right.  IkfiRTH 
stands  behind,  with  her  right  hand  on  LIGHTHEART'S 
shoulder,  pointing  with  her  left.  All  stand  motionless, 
while  the  music  of  "Come  forward  with  pleasure"  is 
played  very  softly. 

Conscience.     'Tis  but  a  mockery,  and  a  senseless  show. 
Celesta.     Above    the   clouds    the    domes    of  Wisdom 
tower. 

TABLEAU.  —  CELESTA  places  her  left  hand  on  LIGHT- 
HEART'S  right  shoulder,  turning  her  to  R.  ;  with  her  right 
hand  she  points  off  R.  LIGHTHEART'S  right  arm  around 
CELESTA'S  waist.  RELIGIOX  falls  on  one  knee  beside 
LIGHTHEART,  pointing  R.  REASON  stands  just  behind 
CELESTA,  pointing  R.  All  motionless,  while,  the  music 
of  "  The  Eose  "  is  played  very  softly. 

Conscience.     Emblems  of  solid  and  unfailing  power. 
Frivolita.     Pleasure's   bright   spirits    at    her   bidding 

come 
To  welcome  thee  to  her  alluring  home. 

Chorus.  —  "  Bright  spirits  of  pleasure,"  &c. 


200  LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Enter,  L.,  dwellers  in  the  valley. 

Celesta.     Wisdom's  choice  spirits  at  her  bidding  meet, 
To  guard  and  guide  thee  to  her  grand  retreat. 
Chorvs.  —  "  Adown  the  heights  advancing,"  &c. 

Enter,  R.,  dwellers  on  the  heights. 
Lightheart.     Kind  friends,  fair  promises  of  peace  and 

j°y 

To  lure  my  steps  you  eagerly  employ. 

How  shall  I  choose  ?     Each  claims  the  better  part ; 

Each  with  attractions  rare  enchains  my  heart. 

"Wisdom's  grand  temple  dim  and  distant  lies, 

To  longing  souls  u  rich,  alluring  prize  ; 

But  from  the  road  before,  so  rough  and  drear, 

My  trembling  spirit  shrinks  with  doubt  and  fear. 

Here  Pleasure's  valley,  beautiful  and  sweet, 

Spreads  flowery  pathways  for  my  tender  feet. 

To  reach  her  realms  is  no  unwelcome  task : 

Freely  her  joys  are  given  all  that  ask. 

Two  paths  to  happiness  you  thus  disclose  : 

One  steep  and  rough,  the  other  smoothly  flows. 

I  am  but  mortal :  where  sweet  pleasures  rise 

I'll  take  the  gift,  to  others  leave  the  prize. 

Thou,  fair  Frivojita,  shall  be  my  guide 

To  all  the  joys  that  in  your  home  reside. 

Frivolita.     Pilgrim,  your  hand  :   a  happy  choice  you 
make  ; 

At  Pleasure's  feast  come  freely  and  partake. 

Conscience.     Stay,  Lightheart,  stay  !  list  to  my  warn- 
ing voice  : 

There's  sin  and  danger  in  your  foolish  choice. 


LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE.  201 

Lightheart.     Conscience,   away  ;   your  voice  is  harsh 

and  cold : 
Break  riot  the  charm  that  doth  my  heart  enfold. 

Conscience.     There's  danger  in  the  path  thy  feet  would 

tread,  — 

Pitfalls  beneath,  and  darkness  overhead. 
If  thou  wilt  go,  I'll  with  thee  to  the  vale, 
With  shame  will  goad  thee,  with  remorse  assail, 
Till  back  thou  turn  to  Wisdom's  better  way. 

Lightheart.    Conscience,  I  heed  thee  not :  away,  away  ! 

Enter,  L.,  FOLLY,  FALSEHOOD,  and  SHAME,  who  crowd 
and  jostle  the  dwellers  of  the  valley,  and  force  themselves 
to  the  front. 

Lightheart.     But  who  are  these  who  recklessly  appear, 
To  make  confusion  'mid  the  dwellers  here? 

Folly.     I'm  Folly,  daring  spirit  of  the  dell : 
Within  the  vale  you'll  learn  to  know  me  well. 
They  seek  to  keep  me  from  their  sports  away : 
I'm  always  there,  the  noisiest  in  the  play. 
I  lead  them  by  my  arts  where  pitfalls  lie, 
Aud  laugh  and  shout  to  see  them  sink  and  die. 

Falsehood.     Falsehood's  my  name.     I'm  Folly's  trusty 

friend : 

Together  ever  we  in  mischief  blend. 
O'er  all  unsightly  things  a  veil  I  throw, 
Flimsy  and  weak,  but  gorgeous  in  its  show. 
I  robe  the  valley  in  a  gay  disguise 
That  hides  the  rottenness  which  in  it  lies. 

Shame.     In  a  dark  dell  the  cave  of  Shame  is  found, 
By  weeping  willows  thick  enclustered  round, 


202  LIGHTHE ART'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Near  to  the  lake  o'er  which,  with  wild  despair, 
Grim  Fates,  relentless,  wearied  spirits  bear. 
When  Pleasure's  smiles  lose  their  delusive  spell, 
Come,  hide  your  sorrows  in  Shame's  gloomy  cell. 

Conscience.     Lightheart,  this  heavy  burden  must  you 

bear ; 
With  Folly,  Falsehood,  Shame,  your  pleasures  share. 

Lightheart.     (To  FRIVOLITA.)     Are  these  the  joys  to 

which  you  would  invite? 

Vanish,  false  Pleasure,  from  my  aching  sight. 
Your  smile's  a  mockery,  and  your  joy's  a  snare 
To  lead  my  soul  to  darkness  and  despair. 
Back  to  your  groves  !     Lightheart  the  welcome  spurns 
That  points  the  way  where  sin  unholy  burns. 

(Exeunt  FRIVOLITA  and  attendants,  L.) 

0  fair  Celesta  !  with  repentance  meet  (kneels), 

1  lowly  bend  me  at  your  steadfast  feet. 
Lead  me  in  Wisdom's  path  :  if  rough  or  fair, 
I'll  toil  with  energy,  with  patience  bear. 

Celesta.     (Raising    LIGHTHEART.)      Thou    hast    but 

looked  on  Pleasure's  mocking  face  : 
On  thy  fair  fame  she  leaves  no  blasting  trace. 
Temptation  overcome  doth  fit  thy  soul 
To  battle  bravely  for  the  promised  goal. 

Conscience.     Thou    hast    done    well :     henceforth   the 

path  is  sure 

For  thy  young  soul  to  happiness  secure. 
Where  Reason  and  Religion  point  the  way, 
Step  forth  with  courage,  and  with  joy  obey. 
Upward  and  onward  be  thy  watchwords  ever : 
Pure  pleasures  spring  alone  from  wise  endeavor. 


LIGHTHEARl'S   PILGRIMAGE.  203 

Celesta.  Forward,  brave  pilgrim  !  to  the  pure  and  true, 
Wisdom  gives  power  to  couquer  and  subdue. 

(Chorus.     Air,  "  Chorus  of  Pilgrims.") 
(During  which  characters   march   off:  u.,  in  the  following 
manner  :  First,  REASON  and  RELIGION,  hand  in  hand ; 
then  LIGHTHEART,  with  CELESTA  on  her  right,  CON- 
SCIENCE on  her  left.    -Dwellers  in  the  heights  follow.) 

To  our  home,  pilgrim  brave,  we  will  guide  thee, 

With  its  power  of  joy  thee  alluring: 
Let  no  duty  or  danger  appall  thee 

A  haven  of  rest  from  securing. 

Semi-chorus. 

To  the  pilgrim,  who,  bold  and  enduring, 
Bravely  treads  in  the  pathway  of  duty, 
Her  mansions  of  wondrous  beauty, 
Attractive  and  beautiful  gleam. 

Semi-chorus. 

Fairest  home,  where  purified  pleasures 
Sweetly  gladden  the  heart  that  secureth, 

Ever  pouring  its  bountiful  treasures 
In  blessings  of  peace  and  of  joy. 

Semi-chorus. 

Then  press  onward,  bold  pilgrim,  onward: 
To  the  joys  that  our  loved  home  bestoweth, 
The  rough  pathway  of  duty  secureth ; 
For  the  toils  of  the  pilgrim  sweet  rest, 
For  the  toils  of  the  pilgrim  sweet  rest, 
Yes,  sweet  rest,  pilgrim,  sweet  rest. 

(Curtain  falls.) 

NOTE.  —  The  tunes  used  in  this  allegory  may  all  be  found  in  "  The 
Grammar  School  Chorus,"  published  in  Boston,  and  sent  by  mail,  post* 
paid,  by  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co.,  on  receipt  of  one  dollar. 


THE  WAR  OF  THE  ROSES, 


AN    ALLEGORY. 


FOR  FEMALE  CHARACTERS  ONLY. 


CHARACTERS. 
GENTILLA,  the  wanderer. 
CAMELLIA,  queen  of  the  flowers." 
RUBA  (the  red  rose),  emblem  of  love. 
EGLANTERIA  (the  yellow  rose),  emblem  of  jealousy. 
VIOLA  (the  violet),  emblem  of  modesty. 
LILIA  (the  lily),  emblem  of  purity. 
COLUMBINE,  emblem  of  folly. 
AMARYLLIS,  emblem  of  pride. 
POPIVA  (the  poppy),  emblem  of  sleep. 

{This  allegory  is  particularly  designed  for  school  exhibi- 
tions. Choruses  should  be  seated  on  the  platform,  R.  and 
L.  An  open  stage  should  be  left  between,  for  the  speak- 
ing. 

SCENE. —  The  Garden  of  Youth.  Decorate  the  platform 
with  plants  in  pots,  hanging  baskets,  small  trees,  &c., 
with  a  green  bank  at  back.  The  characters  should  be 
adorned  with  emblematic  flowers. 

205 


206  THE   WAR   OF   THE   ROSES. 

Chorus. 

(During  which,  enter  RUBA,  VIOLA,  LILIA,  R.  ;  EGLAN- 

TERIA,  COLUMBINE,  and  AMARYLLIS,  L.) 

(Air,  "  The  herd-Mis.") 

From  mossy  beds  upspringing, 

Fair  queen,  we  gather  now, 
Our  flowery  tributes  bringing 

To  grace  thy  regal  brow, 
With  crystal  dew-drops  gleaming, 

With  fragrance  rich  and  sweet, 
Pure  as  the  Jove  we  bear  thee : 

"We  lay  them  at  thy  feet. 

Enter  CAMELLIA,  c.     Repeat  chorus. 

Camellia.     Beloved  subjects,  to  our  willing  ear 
Your  loyal  greetings  come  in  tones  sincere. 
In  love  we  welcome  all  the  love  you  sing, 
And  for  that  love  the  tributes  that  you4)riug.  • 
Your  blooming  faces,  ever  bright  and  fair, 
Adorn  the  earth  with  beauty  rich  and  rare. 
Your  graceful  forms  attractive  ever  prove  ; 
Your  virtues  waft  their  fragrance  as  you  move. 
When  love  and  loyalty  go  hand  in  hand, 
What  realm  can  equal  our  bright,  flowery  land? 

Ruba.     With  joy,  fair  queen,  your  orders  we  obey  : 
Fondly  we  own  your  gentle,  loving  sway. 
Your  smiles,  refreshing  as  the  summer  showers, 
Reward  the  tasks  you  set  our  humble  powers. 

Eglanteria.     Proudly,  fair  queen,  thy  sovereign  will 

we  own, 

And  bend  submissively  around  thy  throne : 
The  chosen  ruler  of  our  tender  race, 
Thou  rul'st  supreme  with  dignity  and  grace. 


THE    WAR   OF   THE   ROSES.  207 

Camellia.      Since    Nature    gave  to  us  the   charm  to 

grace 

And  deck  with  varied  hues  the  earth's  broad  face, 
Youth's  first  attraction  was  the  realm  of  flowers, 
The  fairy  garden  of  life's  sunny  hours. 
With  gratitude  should  we  accept  its  love, 
With  bounteous  hands  our  grateful  feelings  prove. 
Just  stepping  into  Life's  bewildering  hours, 
An  earthly  maiden  strays  among  the  flowers, 
Gazing  enraptured  where  our  treasures  lie, 
Fearing  to  pluck,  yet  loath  to  pass  them  by. 
This  maid  to  welcome  'tis  our  high  decree, 
Ruba,  that  you  our  messenger  shall  be. 
Choose  from  our  royal  court  companions  fair 
To  aid  you  in  the  task :  then  quick  repair, 
With  our  dear  love  the  happy  maiden  greet, 
And  lay  your  floral  tributes  at  her  feet. 
Remember,  not  alone  to  charm  the  sense 
Do  we  our  regal  offerings  dispense : 
That  which  is  lovely  do  we  wisely  prize 
For  some  fair  virtue  that  within  it  lies. 
Forget  not,  that,  within  our  beauteous  land, 
Poisonous  flowers  all  unblushing  stand. 
For  her  adornment  use  your  highest  art ; 
With  sweetest  fragrance  bless  her  youthful  heart. 

Ruba.     Eager  I  haste,  sweet  queen,  the  maid  to  greet : 
Your  royal  welcome  shall  my  lips  repeat. 
Viola  and  Lilia,  my  companions  fair, 
With  your  approval  shall  my  mission  share. 

Camellia.     Ruba,  thy  happy  choice  we  well  approve : 
Over  the  garden  on  your  mission  move. 


208  THE   WAR    OF   TEE   ROSES. 

(Chorus.     Air,  "  Over  the  billow"') 

Over  the  garden  merrily  dancing, 

Seek  the  bright  maiden  hither  advancing; 

Over  the  garden  joyfully  moving, 

Meet  her  with  greeting,  peaceful  and  loving: 

Flowers  bright  blooming,  sweetly  perfuming, 

Welcoming  her  coming,  greet  her  with  love. 

Repeat. 
(Exeunt  RUBA,  VIOLA,  Liu  A,  R.     QUEEN,  c.) 

Eglanteria.   Again  preferred  !    Ruba,  the  simplest  rose, 
The  plainest  flower,  that  in  our  garden  grows ! 
Methinks  our  gracious  queen  is  lacking  taste, 
Her  favors  on  this  senseless  thing  to  waste. 

Amaryllis.     Ay,  Eglanteria,  'tis  a  cruel  shame, 
This  insult  to  your  proud  ancestral  name. 
You,  of  the  roses  the  most  bright  and  fair, 
Our  sovereign's  favors  have  a  right  to  share. 

Columbine.    Sweet  Amaryllis,  doth  not  your  proud  heart 
Rebel  to  be  so  coolly  set  apart, 
While  Viola  and  Lilia,  tame  and  meek, 
Usurp  the  places  our  high  names  bespeak? 

Amaryllis.     Ay,  sister  Columbine,  with  bitter  pain 
My  heart  is  moved;  yet  why  should  we  complain? 
Our  sovereign's  will  is  law,  there's  no  denial : 
What  comfort  can  we  seek  in  this  sore  trial? 

Columbine.     When    monarchs   recklessly   the    sceptre 

wield, 

Justice,  the  higher  law,  should  be  our  shield : 
Fair  Eglanteria's  wrongs  give  ample  cause 
To  seek  rebellion  'gainst  unholy  laws. 
Some  solace  for  our  woes  we  yet  may  gain 
By  opeu  war  'gainst  Ruba  and  her  train. 


THE   WAR   OF   THE   ROSES.  209 

Eglanteria.  Thanks  for  your  sympathy  in  my  sore  need. 
Ay,  Columbine,  a  bitter  war  indeed 
Henceforth  'twixt  Ruba'and  myself  shall  wage, 
Not  e'en  Camellia's  power  can  assuage. 
While  Ruba  seeks  the  maid,  with  ready  art, 
To  plant  the  germs  of  virtue  in  her  heart, 
Devouring  passions  I  will  mingle  there, 
To  check  their  growth,  their  tendrils  to  iusnare. 
Grant  me  your  aid,  my  true  and  loving  friends, 
And  for  your  wrongs  I'll  quickly  make  amends. 

Amaryllis.     Ay,  Eglanteria,  with  a  willing  heart, 
Proud  in  your  triumph  thus  to  have  a  part. 

Columbine.     Thy  wrongs  are  mine  :  show  me  the  way 

to  serve  ; 
Thy  trust  and  counsel  I  will  well  deserve. 

Eglanteria.     Again  my  thanks.     Ruba  the  maid  will 

charm 

With  loving  blandishment  and  virtues  warm ; 
Teach  her  the  secret  powers  which  dwell  within 
The  heart  of  youth  to  guard  from  guile  and  sin. 
This  be  our  task  :  sleepy  Popiva's  aid 
Shall  fast  in  Slumber's  arms  enfold  the  maid ; 
Then  to  her  bosom  shall  our  gifts  be  pressed,  — 
Pride,  Jealousy,  and  Folly  there  find  rest. 
Come,  then,  my  sisters,  we'll  the  maiden  greet: 
For  cruel  wrong  revenge  is  fair  and  sweet. 

Trio.     Air,  "  Love  of  country." 

Come,  sisters,  with  united  hearts, 

Against  the  foe  before  us 
Boldly  advance :  our  wily  arts 

To  peace  shall  quick  restore  us. 
14 


210  THE   WAR   OF   THE    ROSES. 

For  cruel  wrongs  revenge  is  sweet, 

Oppression's  power  defying: 
Fearless  we  go  the  foe  to  meet, 

Quick  victory  descrying. 
Chorus.     Come,  sisters,  &c. 

(Exeunt  EGLANTERIA,  LILIA,  and  VIOLA,  L.) 

Enter  GENTILLA,  n. 

Gentilla.     A  paradise  of  flowers  !     How  sweet  to  rove 
O'er  sunlit  meadow,  through  the  rustling  grove, 
By  murmuring  fountain,  drinking  with  full  heart 
The  joyous  beauty  each  and  all  impart ! 
The  leaves'  soft  rustle  in  the  summer  breeze, 
The  song  of  birds  among  the  bending  trees, 
The  bee's  swift  hum,  the  cricket's  chirping  voice, 
In  Nature's  language  bid  the  heart  rejoice. 
The  flowers  alone  in  silent  beauty  stand, 
The  fairest  treasures  of  this  bounteous  land ; 
Yet  legends  tell  us  they've  the  magic  skill 
Youth's  opening  life  with  richest  truths  to  fill. 
If  this  be  true,  O  pretty  flowers  !  impart 
The  purest  teachings  of  your  mystic  art : 
Plant  in  my  tender  heart  the  germs  of  truth, 
To  guard  and  guide  aright  the  steps  of  youth. 

Song.     Air,  "  Ye  merry  birds." 

Gentilla.          In  gardens,  where  soft  breezes  blow, 

Are  pretty  flowers  which  sweetly  grow. 
Within  each  soft  and  tiny  shell 
Is  hidden  a  rare  and  curious  spell 
To  guard  and  guide  the  steps  of  youth, 
And  fill  the  heart  with  germs  of  truth. 

Come,  pretty  flowers,  so  bright  and  free, 

Whisper  your  secrets  unto  me, 

Your  highest  arts  employ 

To  fill  my  soul  with  peace  and  joy. 


THE   WAR   OF   THE   EOSES.  211 

(RuBA,  LILIA,  and  VIOLA,  outside,  K.) 
Yes,  gladly  will  we  to  thy  heart 
The  secrets  of  our  race  impart: 
If  thou  wilt  guard  what  we  bestow, 
Around  thee  shall  life's  blessings  flow, 
Sweet  peace  and  joy  thy  soul  shall  know. 
Along  life's  path  our  flowery  spell, 
If  thou  but  guard,  shall  guide  thee  well. 

Yes,  happy  maid,  so  bright  and  free, 

Our  secrets  we'll  disclose  to  thee, 

Our  highest  arts  employ 

To  fill  thy  soul  with  peace  and  joy. 

Full  chorus. 
Repeat.  —  "  Yes,  happy  maid,"  &c. 

Enter  RCBA,  LILIA,  and  VIOLA,  R. 

Ruba.     Our  royal  queeu,  Camellia,  bids  me  greet 
The  youthful  wanderer  in  her  fair  retreat : 
Pier  bounteous  realm,  in  all  attractions  bright, 
Welcomes  thee,  maiden,  with  a  fond  delight ; 
Here  mayst  thou  rove,  where  all  is  pure  and  fair, 
Gather  our  treasures,  and  our  pleasures  share. 

Gentilla.     Thanks  for  your  welcome  ;  yet  I  fain  would 

know 

Where  in  your  realm  the  mystic  flowers  grow 
That  warm  the  breast  of  youth  with  pure  desire, 
And  Virtue's  holiest  attributes  inspire. 

Ruba.     (Presents  rose.)     Thy  wish  is  wise,  fair  stran- 
ger :  here  behold 

A  gem  far  richer  than  a  miue  of  gold, — 
A  simple  rose,  emblem  of  purest  love, 
The  holy  power  that  rules  in  heaven  above. 
With  this  true  happiness  is  freely  bought ; 
Without  it  all  the  woi-ld  is  less  than  nought : 


212  THE   WAR   OF   THE   ROSES. 

Keep  it  unsullied  in  thy  youthful  breast ; 
'Twill  guide  thee  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 

Gentilla.     Thy  blooming  gift,  fair  messenger,  shall  be 
A  precious  talisman  of  power  to  me, 
All  base  and  selfish  passions  to  subdue, 
To  gain  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  true. 

Viola,      (Presents  violet.)     This  violet,  a  simple  shrink- 
ing flower, 

Within  its  petals  holds  a  mighty  power. 
In  beds  obscure  it  hides  a  blushing  face, 
Yet  wafts  the  richest  perfumes  of  our  race  : 
Fit  type  of  Modesty,  a  gem  of  worth, 
NQ  more  unselfish  spirit  e'er  had  birth. 
Take  it,  fair  maid :  whatever  life  secure, 
This  simple  flower  shall  make  more  rich  and  pure. 

Gentilla.     Beside  the  rose,  fair  stranger,  it  shall  bloom, 
Freshening  Endeavor  with  its  sweet  perfume ; 
So  fair  without,  so  rich  and  pure  within, 
A  guide  to  virtue,  and  a  guard  from  sin. 

Lilia.     (Presents  lily.)     This  lily  that  I  bring  con- 
tains a  spell, 

"Within  thy  youthful  heart  to  guard  thee  well,  — 
Emblem  of  purity,  the  pearl  of  price, 
A  weapon  strong  'gainst  Folly's  gay  device. 
All  heaven-born  virtues  own  its  gentle  swayr 
All  vices  from  its  presence  shrink  away. 
Cherish  it,  maiden  :  on  life's  battle-field 
'Gainst  all  invaders  'tis  a  spotless  shield. 

Gentilla.     Your   precious  gifts,  sweet  friends,  I  hold 

most  dear : 
To  your  fair  queen  pray  bear  my  thanks  sincere. 


THE  WAR   OF   THE   ROSES.  213 

Tell  her  Gentilla  breathes  this  heartfelt  prayer : 
Loug  may  she  live  to  rule  a  realm  so  fair ! 

TABLEAU.  —  GENTILLA  stands  in  front  of  bank,  looking  at 
the  flowers  in  her  hands.  RUBA  steps  upon  the  bank, 
places  roses  in  her  hair,  and  looks  into  her  face.  VIOLET 
kneels  at  R.  of  GENTILLA,  and  fastens  a  bunch  of  violets 
on  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  looking  up  into  her  face.  LILIA 
passes  behind  GENTILLA  to  the  L.,  and  places  a  girdle  of 
leaves  and  flowers  around  her  waist,  looking  up  into  her 
face.  Bright,  smiling,  happy  expressions  on  all  faces. 
Take  positions  quickly,  and  stand  immovable,  while  the 
pianist  plays  softly,  "TiiE  ROSE." 

Ruba.     Gentilla,  all  the  graces  we  bestow 
Ouly  by  careful  nurture  fruitful  grow. 
The  germs  of  worth,  if  thou  unceasing  guard, 
Protect,  and  cherish,  bring  a  rich  reward. 
Neglected,  their  fair  tints  will  fade  away, 
Their  fragrance  vanish,  and  their  powers  decay. 
Farewell !  the  richest  blessings  life  can  give, 
If  thou  be  faithful,  shall  thy  trust  receive. 

(Exeunt  RUBA,  VIOLA,  and  LILIA,  R.) 

Gentilla.    (Sits  on  bank.)    Neglect  thee  !  tender  flowers, 

believe  it  not : 

Henceforth  for  thee  and  me  a  common  lot. 
Now  that  I  know  the  language  of  thy  race, 
Each  whispered  word  of  counsel  I'll  embrace. 
Thou,  rose  of  love,  with  all  thy  sweetness  warm ; 
Thou,  modest  violet,  with  thy  fragrance  charm  ; 
Thou,  pure,  sweet  lily,  with  thy  virtue  glow  ; 
And  round  life's  path  shall  countless  blessings  flow. 


214  THE  WAR   OP   THE   ROSES. 

Enter  POPIVA,  c. 

Popiva.     To  serve  the  crafty  Eglanteria's  will, 
A  magic  potion  must  my  art  distil, 
In  drowsy  chains  this  maiden  fast  to  keep, 
And  waft  her  gently  to  the  arms  of  Sleep. 
(POPIVA  waves  a  poppy  around  the  head  of  GENTILLA,  who 
falls  asleep.) 

Song,  POPIVA.     Air,  "  The  image  of  the  rose" 

Come,  Sleep,  on  drowsy  pinions  flying, 

This  maiden  lull  to  sweet  repose: 
The  land  of  dreams  around  thee  lying, 

To  charm  her  senses,  brightly  glows. 
There  fairy  visions,  soft  entrancing, 

In  changeful  measures  sport  and  play: 
Sleep,  by  thy  magic  power  advancing, 

Within  thy  arms  bear  her  away. 
Magical  sleep,  bear  her,  bear  her,  oh,  bear  her  away! 

Enter  EGLANTERIA,  AMARYLLIS,  and  COLUMBINE,  L. 

Popiva.     My  task's  accomplished  :  in  a  sleep  profound 
The  tender  victim  of  your  wiles  lies  bound. 
Popiva's  power  no  mortal  can  withstand : 
Softly  approach  and  deal  with  gentle  hand. 

JZglanteria.     (Places  yellow  rose  in  GENTILLA'S  breast.) 
Now,  by  your  leave,  my  sweet  and  gentle  maid, 
By  Ruba's  fancy  modestly  arrayed, 
I'll  place  within  your  breast  this  yellow  rose: 
Emblem  of  Jealousy,  it  hotly  glows. 
When  love  shall  coldly  turn  with  frown  and  sneer, 
Thou'lt  find  in  Jealousy  a  friend  sincere  : 
Love  gave  it  birth,  'gainst  love  it  fiercely  wars, 
And  by  Suspicion's  aid  all  joy  it  mars. 


THE   WAR   OP   THE   ROSES.  215 

To  swift  revenge  'gainst  all  insulting  foes, 
With  fiery  passion,  recklessly  it  goes. 

Amaryllis.     This  flower  of  regal   birth,  emblem  of 

Pride, 

Viola's  modesty  I'll  place  beside. 
Type  of  nobility,  it  stately  stands, 
Bends  to  no  will,  but  royally  commands. 
Wear  it :  'twill  teach  thee  all  thyself  to  know, 
And,  knowing  all  thy  worth,  thy  worth  to  show. 
In  no  obscurity  it  hides  its  face, 
But  boldly  blossoms  with  a  conscious  grace. 
Columbine.     (Places  flower  in  her  hand.) 
Folly's  gay  flower,  the  fickle  Columbine, 
With  Pride  and  Jealousy  let  me  entwine. 
Unlike  its  sisters,  ever  bright  and  gay, 
'Twill  teach  thy  steps  in  Pleasure's  paths  to  stray. 
Nothing  so  fair  but  it  will  freely  face  ; 
Nothing  so  foul  but  it  will  quick  embrace. 
Reckless  of  peril,  'tis  a  sportive  sprite, 
That  dares  the  lowest  depth,  the  loftiest  height. 

TABLEAU.  —  GENTILLA  moves.  POPIVA,  behind  lank, 
leans  forward,  ivith  her  finger  on  her  lips.  EGLANTERIA, 
at  head  of  bank,  kneeling,  looks  to  the  left.  AMARYLLIS, 
at  foot  of  lank,  front,  kneeling,  looks  to  the  right. 
COLUMBINE,  kneeling  behind  bank,  watches  GENTILLA. 
All  but  POPIVA  should  take  (hese  positions  when  they  place 
flowers  in  GENTILLA'S  bosom.  When  GENTILLA  moves, 
all  take  attitudes  as  described,  with  frightened,  anxious, 
guilty  expressions  of  faces.  Music  as  before.  When 
RUB  A  speaks,  all  start  up. 


216  THE   WAR    OF   THE    ROSES. 

JRula.     (Outside,  B.)     Sisters,  awake  !  there's  treason 

in  our  realm  ! 
Advance,  Rebellion's  power  to  overwhelm. 

(Exit  POPIYA,  L.) 

GENTILLA  awakes.     Enter  RUBA,  VIOLA,  and  LILIA,  R. 

Ruba.     Vile  Eglanteria,  with  unblushing  shame, 
Thou  dost  disgraceful  mar  our  mystic  fame  : 
Within  this  maiden's  breast  our  sovereign's  will 
Gave  me  the  power  all  virtues  to  instil. 
With  crafty  art  and  traitorous  intent, 
A  mad  and  wicked  plot  thou  didst  invent, 
With  my  pure  flowers  to  mingle  base  alloys, 
And  rob  sweet  promise  of  its  richest  joys. 
Speak,  traitress  !  can  thy  wicked  spirit  plead 
Aught  to  extenuate  so  base  a  deed? 

Eglanteria.     Insulting  Ruba,  dost  thou  basely  dare 
To  flaunt  and  clamor  with  so  proud  .an  air? 
Dost  think  to  school  me  with  thy  pettish  ways  ? 
Me,  over  whom  the  royal  colors  blaze? 
The  same  almighty  power  has  given  us  all 
The  right  vain  hearts  of  mortals  to  inthrall. 
The  favorite  of  a  queen,  thou  canst  bestow 
Only  such  gifts  as  her  commands  allow. 
While  freely  I  endow,  with  quickening  fire 
The  slumbering  passions  actively  inspire. 

Ruba.     Vile  are  your  gifts,  base  Eglanteria ;  cease : 
Unworthy  art  thou  of  this  realm  of  peace.  • 
No  right  have  we  to  give  but  what  is  pure, 
To  sweet  and  lasting  happiness  secure. 
I  do  pronounce  thee  traitorous  to  our  cause : 
Thy  acts  unholy  mock  our  righteous  laws. 


THE    WAR   OF   THE   ROSES.  217 

Quick,  make  amends :  in  Queen  Camellia's  name 
Thy  poisonous  gifts  I  bid  thee  now  reclaim. 

Eglanteria.     I  own  no  queen  :  defiantly  I  stand 
The  peer  of  any  power  in  Flower-land. 
My  gifts  shall  bloom,  base  Ruba :  thou  shouldst  know 
None  can  reclaim  what  once  we  free  bestow. 

Ruba.     Then  will  I  pluck  them  with  this  loyal  hand. 
Guardians  of  virtue,  firm  around  me  stand. 

Eglanteria.     Come,  sister  spirits,  to  the  rescue  fly : 
Our  gifts  bestowed,  securely  they  must  lie. 
Of  Eglanteria's  power,  base  slaves,  beware. 

Ruba.    My  strength  'gainst  thine  to  match  I  boldly  dare. 

(RUBY  and  EGLANTERIA  approach  GEXTILLA.) 
Genlilla.     Hold !    brilliant  flowers,   a  moment  cease 

your  strife. 

You  both  claim  mystic  power  o'er  my  young  life. 
Thou,  gentle  Ruba,  and  thy  sisters  twain, 
Taught  me  with  blooming  gifts  sweet  peace  to  gain. 
Thou,  Eglanteria,  on  my  slumbers  pressed 
Passions  which  ever  war  within  the  breast. 
While  'tis  your  power  to  give,  'tis  mine  to  take : 
Of  all  your  bounties  this  free  choice  I  make. 
On  Jealousy  I  look  with  fear  and  dread  ; 
Cold-hearted  Pride  too  lofty  holds  her  head ; 
Folly's  a  flower  of  ever-changing  hues  : 
These,  crafty  Eglanteria,  I  refuse. 
Deceitful  gifts,  I  cast  ye  off  with  scorn  : 

(Throws  away  flowers  given  her  by  EGLANTERIA,  AMA- 
RYLLIS, and  COLUMBINE.) 
Ye  gain  no  homage,  yet  the  true  heart  warn. 
The  power  of  Love  already  o'er  me  steals  ; 


218  THE  WAR  OF   THE  ROSES. 

The  power  of  Modesty  its  charms  reveals  ; 
The  power  of  Purity  my  choice  controls,  — 
Three  guardian  virtues  for  all  longing  souls. 
These  will  I  wear  within  my  youthful  heart, 
Richly  to  flourish,  never  to  depart. 

Enter  QUEEN,  c. 

Queen.     Well  said,  Gentilla  :  thine's  a  happy  choice  ; 
May  all  its  blessings  make  thy  heart  rejoice ! 
As  thou  hast  found  within  these  realms  of  joy 
Unholy  passions  mingle  base  alloy, 
So  wilt  thou  find  along  the  path  of  life 
Upspringing  foes  of  virtue,  armed  for  strife. 
Guard  well  thy  treasures  with  a  tender  care : 
Of  Slumber's  toils  be  watchful  and  beware. 
(Gives  japonica.)     Accept  our  royal  token  :  let  it  be 
"  Type  of  perfected  loveliness  "  to  thee,  — 
The  highest  honor  mortal  can  attain ; 
Then  onward  press  with  Hope  and  Faith  to  gain. 
Then  shall  our  flowery  virtues  never  cease 
To  fill  thy  youthful  soul  with  joy  and  peace. 

Chorus.     Air,  "  Boatman's  return." 

Joy,  joy,  ever  be  near, 

Sweetly  fall  o'er  thee ; 
Peace,  Peace,  guarding  from  fear, 

Warmly  infold  thee. 

Love,  warm  and  endearing,  with  sweet  modesty  glow, 
With  Purity  cheering  Life  as  you  go. 

J°y>  j°y»  &c- 
(Form,  and  march  q^R.,  led  by  QUEEN.) 

NOTE.  —  The  tunes  used  in  this  allegory  may  all  be  found  in  "  The 
Grammar  School  Chorus,"  published  in  Boston,  and  sent  by  mail,  post- 
paid, by  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co.,  on  receipt  of  one  dollar. 


THIRTY  .MINUTES  FOE  REFRESHMENTS, 


CHARACTERS. 

JOHN  DOWNLEY,  a  bachelor. 
CLARENCE  FITTS,  his  colored  servant. 
J°HN  FOXTON,  a  young  married  gentleman. 
;    ^^j  MAJOR  PEPPER,  U.S.A. 

•MRS.  FOXTON. 

«A  .A^   Miss  ARABELLA  PEPPER,  a  maiden  lady. 
POLLY,  waiting  maid  at  Highland  Station. 

COSTUMES. 

DOWNLET,  gray  suit,  light  overcoat,  gray  wig,  side-whiskers, 
cap,  travelling  satchel,  gloves. 

CLARENCE,  light  pants,  yellow  vest,  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons, 
hat. 

FOXTON,  white  pants,  white  vest,  black  velvet  coat,  light  curly 
wig,  moustache,  eye-glasses,  gloves,  cane. 

MAJOR  PEPPER,  undress  uniform. 

MRS.  FOXTON,  Light  silk  dre.ss,  white  shawl,  white  bonnet. 

Miss  PEPPER,  brown  silk  dress,  red  shawl,  red  front  with  side 
cui'ls,  wrinkled  face,  spectacles,  straw  bonnet,  green  gloves. 

POLLY,  spotted  calico,  neat  white  apron,  with  pockets. 

SCENE.  —  Private  room  in  the  refreshment  department  of 
Highland  Station.  Table,  c.  Chairs,  R.  and  L.  Door, 
C.  Entrances,  E.  and  L.  If  no  door  c.,  all  c.  en- 
trances should  be  from  R.  POLLY  discovered  laying 
table-cloth. 

219 


220  THIRTY   MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS. 

Polly.      (Sings.') 

"  Oh !  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream,"  &c. 

Now,  isn't  that  touching?  But  not  for  me  were  those 
beautiful  words  written.  Oh,  no  !  the  tender  heart  of 
Polly  Patten  has  never  felt  the  ecstatic  emotion  caused 
by  that  dream.  And  I  have  so  longed  for  some  manly 
bosom  on  which  to  recliue  my  drooping  head  !  Ah,  well ! 
I  live  in  hopes.  When  I  took  this  menial  situation,  it 
was  with  the  fond,  delusive  hope,  that,  among  the -manly 
bosoms  that  come  and  go,  one  might  be  thrilled  by  my 
presence,  some  penetrating  eye  might  be  fastened  upon 
me  in  admiration,  some  masculine  hand  squeeze  mine 
as  I  passed  the  coffee.  But  not  an  eye,  not  a  squeeze. 
It's  awful  to  think  of.  No  matrimonial  prospect  ahead, 
and  my  hair  getting  awful  thin  on  top.  Oh  if  some 
loving  widower,  or  some  rich  old  bachelor,  would  only 
fall  in  love  with  me  !  Oh,  my  !  it  won't  bear  thinking  of. 

(Cars  heard  outside,  entering  the  depot;  whistle,  bell,  <&c., 
and  then  a  voice,  "  Thirty  minutes  for  refreshments.") 

The  train  is  here.     Now,  Polly,  keep  your  eyes  open. 
Enter  CLARENCE,  c.,  fanning  himself  with  his  hat. 

1  Clar.  My  golly  !  Almos'  lose  my  bref.  (Sinks  into 
chair,  R.) 

Polly.     I  declare,  it's  Mr.  Fitts  ! 

*  Clar.  Dat's  who  'tis,  jes'.  Golly,  Miss  Polly,  such  a 
jam  !  Cars  loaded,  crammed,  stufficated. 

Polly.     A  crowd  !     Oh,  it's  an  excursion  train  ! 
-3  Clar.     Yaas,  dat's  what's   de  matter.     Abigjubilum 


THIRTY    MIMJTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS.  221 

down  dar  to  York,  —  down  dar.  Big  fiddles,  big  trom- 
bones, big  drums.  Golly,  what  drums !  Big  as  yer 
head;  and  all  de  phusicans  a-fifin'  and  a-blowiu',  —  and 
such  a  crowd ! 

Polly.  Was  your  master,  Mr.  Downley,  on  the  train? 
^Clar.  Yaas  :  he  dar.  Comin'  here  to  eat  his  dinner: 
telegraphed  for  de  room.  I  left  him  in  de  hind  car,  and 
went  into  de  smoking-car,  to  have  a  whiff'  wid  de  odder 
gentlemen.  By  golly,  such  fun  !  Dey  made  a  pos'-omce 
of  me,  in  dar. 

Polly.     A  post-office? 

*,~Clar.  Yaas,  dey  did.  I'll  tell  yer  all  about  it.  I 
was  in  dar,  in  de  smoking-car,  and  de  fust  ting  I  knew, — 
golly,  wa'u't  it  funny  !  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  De 
bery  first  ting,  when  I  was  in  dat  ar'  smoking-car,  I 
heard  a  voice  like  dis  yar :  "  Mr.  Johnsing,  would  you 
be  so  disobliging  and  so  disaccommodatirig  as  to  do  me  a 
very  perticklar  favor."  "  Sartain  sure,"  says  I ;  "  but 
my  name's  not  Johnsing.  •  It's  Fitts,  Clarence  Fitts." 
"  I  ax  yer  apology,"  says  de  gentleman.  "  Will  you  go 
for  to  take  this  year  note  to  de  lady  what  sits  in  de  fourth 
seat  from  de  furder  end,  on  de  right,  in  de  next  car?" 
"  Sartaiuly,"  says  I.  So  I  took  de  note,  and  was  a  jest 
going  out  of  de  door  of  de  smoking-car,  when  a  hossifer 
tapped  me  on  this  year  shoulder,  and,  says  he  to  me, 
says  he,  "  Mr.  Washington,  is  you  going  to  de  next  car?" 
"Yaas,"  says  I,  "I'm  going  to  de  next  car ;  but  my 
name's  not  Washington.  He's  been  dead  and  gone  'bout 
seventy  'leben  years.  My  name  is' Fitts,  Clarence  Fitts." 
"  Misser  Fitts,"  says  de  milintary  man,  "oblige  me  by 
takin'  dis  year  little  note  to  de  lady  what  sits  in  de  fourth 


222  THIRTY  MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS. 

seat  from  de  furder  end,  on  de  left."  By  golly !  yer 
might  have  knocked  me  down  wid  —  wid  —  a  crowbar. 
Two  notes,  two  ladies,  two  fourth  seats  in  de  next  car ! 
Did  yer  ever  see  sich  an  infusion  of  idees?  But  I  took 
de  notes,  and  gib  dem  to  de  ladies.  What  you  s'pose  it 
fill  mean,  hey? 

Polly.  Oh  !  the  gentlemen  were  probably  unable  to  be 
with  their  ladies,  on  account  of  the  crowd,  and  wished 
to  communicate  with  them. 

U  Clar.     Didn't  say  nuffin'  'bout  communion  :  only  said, 
gib  'em  de  notes. 

Polly.  Well,  it's  all  right.  But  tell  me,  Mr.  Fitts, 
how  is  your  master? 

1  Clar.     Well,  he's  purty  well,  and  so  am  I.     How's 
yerself  generally  ? 

Polly.     Mr.  Fitts,  is  his  heart  still  unaffected? 
£   Clar.     Heart !      Sound  as  a   cabbage.     Got  a  little 
rheumatiz,  do. 

Polly.  You  don't  understand  me.  Has  he  formed  an 
attachment  for  anybody? 

<i  Clar.  Oh,  yis  !  Oh,  yis  !  He  done  dat,  sartiu,  sure 
you  born,  Miss  Polly. 

Polly.     Indeed  !     Who  is  the  happy  creature? 
'  o  Clar.     It's  me,  Miss  Polly.     He  berry  much  attached 
to  me. 

Polly.     Oh,  how  stupid  you  are  !    I  mean,  has  he  been 
smitten  by  the  charms  of  any  young  lady? 
//  Clar.     No  :  he  didn't  git  de  mitten  ob  nobody. 

Polly.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Fitts,  is  there  any  little  delicate 
attention  I  could  bestow  that  would  particularly  attract 
his  attention,  —  that  would  waken  an  interest  — 


THIRTY  MINUTES  FOE  REFRESHMENTS.  223 

Clar.  "Wall,  yis  :  you  jist  tread  on  his  corns.  Dat's 
a  little  delicate  attention  dat  would  wake  him  and  de 
whole  neighborhood.  You  jes'  try  dat.  Hear  him  swar'. 
By  golly  !  he  jes'  take  de  roof  off  de  house. 

Polly.     Oh,  how.  stupid  you  are  ! 

i*  Clar.  Wall,  I  speck  I  am,  Miss  Polly.  Yer  see  dat's 
jest  what  Massa  Downley  hired  me  for.  It  saves  a  heap 
ob  trouble,  answering  questions. 

Downley.     (Outside,  c.)     No,  sir :  I  want  the  room 
all  to  myself. 
/*-  Clar.     By  golly,  dar's  Massa  Downley  now. 

Enter  JOHN  DOWNLEY,  c. 

Downley.  "  Thirty  minutes  for  refreshments."  That's 
exceedingly  pleasant  intelligence.  I  haven't  eaten  a 
morsel  since  breakfast,  and  my  stomach  clamors  for 
supplies.  Here,  Clarence ! 

Clar.     Yaas,  Massa  Downley. 

Downley.  Look  after  the  baggage  I  left  in  the  car. 
i  -,.  Clar.  Yaas,  Massa  Downley :  I'll  fotch  him  quick. 
(Exit,  C.) 

Downley.     Now  then,  Sarah. 

Polly.     Polly,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Downley. 

Downley.  Polly?  Why,  so  it  is.  Well,  then,  Polly, 
roast  beef,  fried  potatoes,  squash,  cucumbers,  buckwheat 
cakes,  coffee.  Beef  rare,  potatoes  crisp,  squash  mealy, 
cucumbers  cool,  buckwheats  well-done,  coffee  genuine. 

Polly.     Yes,  sir.     For  how  many,  sir? 

Downley.  How  many?  Polly,  how  long  have  you 
tendered  to  hungry  travellers  the  solids  and  liquids  in- 
tended to  answer  the  calls  of  appetite  ? 


224  THIRTY  MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS. 

Polly,     About  four  years. 

Downley.  And  during  that  long  period  have  you 
failed  to  distinguish  that  happy  being,  the  bachelor,  who 
always  dines  alone.  Polly,  I  blush  for  you. 

Polly.  Yes,  I  know,  Mr.  Downley  ;  but  I  thought 
perhaps  you  might  have  changed  your  state  since  you 
were  last  here.  Meu  are  subject  to  change.  They  will 
marry. 

Downley.  That  is  a  weakness  of  human  nature  of 
which  I  shall  never  be  guilty,  Polly,  —  never.  I've  seen 
quite  enough  of  it.  There  were  no  less  than  five  newly- 
yoked  couples  in  the  cars  with  me,  all  going  straight  to 
misery. 

Polly.  Oh,  no,  sir !  they  were  going  to  the  jubilee 
at  York. 

Doionley.  It's  very  strange  how  people  can  throw 
their  happiness  away  in  this  manner.  I  can't  understand 
it. 

Polly.  Oh,  sir  !  that's  because  you  have  never  felt  the 
flutter  of  a  first  love.  You  have  never  sought  among 
the  sex  for  somebody  who  would  hang  upon  the  words 
that  fell  from  your  lips,  —  who  would  listen  for  your 
footsteps,  —  whose  heart  would  beat  for  you,  and  you 
alone  — 

Downley.  I  declare,  Polly,  you  are  getting  senti- 
mental. 

Polly.  Oh,  sir  !  believe  me,  there  is  somebody  Availing 
for  you.  It  may  be  in  an  humble  position  that  she  is 
waiting  ;  but  she  surely  is. 

Downley.  Well,  let  her  wait.  In  the  mean  while,  my 
dinner,  Polly. 


THIRTY   MINUTES    FOB   REFRESHMENTS.  225 

Polly.  Good  gracious  !  I  forgot  all  about  it.  You 
see,  sir,  your  society  is  so  attractive.  {Exit  n.,  singing.) 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life !  "  &c. 

Downley.  "  Love's  young  dream  !  "  That  young 
woman's  like  all  the  rest.  No  sooner  do  they  set  their 
eyes  upon  a  bachelor,  than  all  manner  of  traps  are  laid 
to  secure  him.  Winks,  nods,  smiles,  sighs,  sentiment, 
and  nonsense  are  all  employed.  But  not  for  Dowuley. 
Oh,  no  !  I'm  too  old  a  fox  to  be  caught  by  any  of  them. 
&ingle-blessedne>s  is  the  apex  of  human  happiness  ;  and 
I'm  not  going  to  descend  from  my  high  sphere,  to  run 
the  risk  of  being  made  miserable  by  a  feminine  attach- 
ment. Now,  then,  I'll  have  a  wash,  and,  with  clean 
hands,  sit  down  and  enjoy  a  comfortable  repast,  while 
the  crowd  are  pushing  and  snapping  at  the  counters  out- 
side. Luckily  I  thought  to  telegraph  from  the  last 
station  for  this  room  ;  for  now  I  can  enjoy  a  comfortable 
repast,  without  fear  of  interruption.  (Exit,  R.) 

Enter  POLLY,  c.,  followed  ly  MRS.  FOXTON. 

Polly.  This  is  the  room,  ma'am  ;  but  are  you  sure 
there's  no  mistake? 

Mrs.  F.  Quite  sure.  Oh,  it's  all  right !  I  had  written 
instructions  to  meet  a  gentleman  here  in  this  room. 

Polly.  (Aside.)  Well,  I  never  !  Oh,  these  men,  these 
men  !  Well,  ma'am,  if  you're  sure  it's  all  right,  —  but 
the  room  was  engaged  by  a  gentleman  — 

Mrs.  F.  I  understand  it  all.  You  need  not  wait. 
The  gentleman  engaged  the  room,  knowing  I  was  to 
meet  him  here. 

15 


226  THIRTY   MINUTES    FOR    REFRESHMENTS. 

Polly.  (Aside.)  I  al \vays  thought  that  Mr.  Dowuley  was 
a  sly  chap  ;  and  no\v  I've  found  him  out.  (Aloud.)  Well, 
ma'am,  you'll  find  combs  and  brushes  in  the  next  room, 
if  you  want  to  fix  up  auy.  (Exit,  K.) 

Jlrs.  F.  Dear  John,  how  I  long  to  meet  him  !  Mar- 
ried only  yesterday,  and  to-day  separated  ;  but  he  couldn't 
help  it.  poor  fellow.  There  was  but  one  seat  in  the  car  ; 
and,  leaving  me  there,  he  took  refuge  in  that  horrid 
Bthoking-car.  But  he  managed  to  send  me  a  note,  telling 
me  to  go  to  room  D,  immediately  on  the  arrival  of  the 
train  at  Highland  Station.  How  thoughtful  of  him  to 
secure  a  private  room  !  I'll  brush  my  hair,  or  he'll  think 
I'm  a  horrid  fright.  The  girl  said  I'd  find  a  brush  in 
that  room.  Dear  John,  how  anxious  I  am  to  see  you  ! 
{Exit,  L.) 

Enter  CLARENCE,  C.,  with   a  tray,  containing  the  dinner 
ordered  by  DOWNLET,  which  he  arranges  upon  the  table. 

' '  Clur.  Wai,  I  nebber  did  see,  in  de  'hole  course  ob  my 
life,  such  a  permiscuous  crowd.  By  golly !  de  sand- 
wiches is  clean  gone,  de  pies  totally  vamoused,  and  de 
doughnuts,  dey  ain't  nowhere. 

Enter  DOWNLEY,  R. 

Downley.     Now,  then,  for  dinner. 

Clar.  Here  you  is,  Massa  Downley :  ebery  ting  all 
ready. 

Downley.     That's  good.     I  like  promptness. 

Clar.  Does  yer?  Well,  dey  ain't  got  none  left.  It's 
all  clear  gone. 

Downley.     Now,  then,  you  look  out  for  yourself,  out- 


THIRTY   MINUTES    FOR    REFRESHMENTS.  227 

side,  at  the  counters.  Make  a  good,  hearty  meal,  and  be 
lively. 

Clar.  (Aside.)  Outside  !  Yes.  Well,  I  guess  dar's 
a  poor  show  for  me.  (Exit,  c.) 

Downley.  Confound  these  excursion  trains !  One  is 
obliged  to  be"  so  crowded  and  hustled.  I'll  be  bound 
they'll  not  get  half  enough  to  eat.  (Sits  at  table,  c.) 
This  looks  inviting.  This  is  one  of  the  comforts  only 
known  to  a  bachelor,  —  quiet  and  plenty.  (About  to  eat.) 

Enter  FOXTON,  C. 

Foxton.     So,  sir:  I've  found  you,  have  I? 
Downley.     It  appears  that  you  have.     And,  now  that 
you  have,  your  business  at  once. 

Foxton.     Business  !     Do  you  know  me,  sir  ? 
Downley.     (Gets  up  and  comes  down  stage.)     Never 
set  eyes  upon  you  before.     Who  are  you? 
Foxton.     A  wronged  man. 

Downley.  Ah,  indeed !  Well,  you're  in  the  wrong 
place. 

^oxton.     My  name,  sir,  is  Foxton,  — John  Foxton. 
Downley.     Well,  sir,  proceed.     My  dinner  is  getting 
cold. 

Foxton.     And  can  you  think  of  dinner  at  such  a  time? 
Downley.     I    can,  particularly  at  this  time,  for  I'm 
very  hungry.     Look    here,  Foxton :   if  you've  got  any 
business  with  me,  let's  have  it  at  once. 
Foxton.     Yesterday  I  took  a  wife. 
Downley.     Did  you?     Well,  whose  wife  did  you  take? 
Foxton.     Sir,  you  are  insolent. 
Downley.     Look   here,  Foxy,  you  may  be   a  man  of 


228  THIRTY   MINUTES    FOR   REFRESHMENTS. 

abstinence :  I  am  not.  I  want  my  dinner.  Speak  or 
leave  ! 

Foxton.  Yesterday  I  was  married  to  one  whom  I  fully 
thought  the  purest  and  sweetest  of  her  sex. 

Downley.  And  to-day  you  found  out  your  mistake. 
Foxtou,  you  have  my  sympathy.  Good-day. 

Foxton.  Xot  so  fast.  You  must  hear  me.  I'm  very 
miserable. 

Downley.     And  I'm  very  hungry. 

Foxton.  I  started  with  my  wife  on  the  train  this 
morning,  to  enjoy  a  season  of  harmony  at  the  jubilee. 

Downley.  Harmony  !  You  should  have  started  with- 
out marrying. 

Foxton.  The  cars  were  crowded.  I  could  find  but 
one  seat.  In  that  seat  I  placed  my  adored  Angelina, 
and  took  my  place  in  the  smoking-car.  Upon  uearing 
this  station,  I  despatched  a  note  to  my  wife,  telling  her 
to  go  to  room  D  upon  the  arrival  of  the  train. 

Downley.  Well,  go  on.  This  but  increases  my  appe- 
tite. 

Foxton.  Upon  the  arrival  of  the  train,  I  immediately 
started  to  secure  this  room :  it  was  already  engaged. 

Downley.     Exactly  :  to  me. 

Foxton.  I  immediately  returned  to  the  cars  to  find 
my  wife.  Alas,  she  was  gone  !  but,  in  the  seat  which 
she  had  vacated,  I  found  this  note,  dropped  by  her.  Be- 
hold the  proof  of  your  villany  ! 

Doivnley.  Villany  !  Look  here,  Foxton  :  I  can  stand 
being  robbed  of  my  dinner ;  but  he  who  steals  my  good 
mime  — 

Foxton.  Oblige  me  by  reading  that  note.  (Hands 
note.) 


THIRTY    MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS.  220 

Downley.  Oh,  certainly  !  Any  thing  to  oblige  ;  al- 
though I  must  say,  Foxy,  your  manner  is  any  thing  but 
pleasing.  (Beads.)  a  On  the  arrival  of  the  train  at 
Highland  Station,  go  at  once  to  room  D.  I  will  be 
there."  Well,  what  of  it? 

Foxton.  What  of  it?  Can  you  calmly  look  me  in 
the  face,  after  reading  that  note,  and  say,  "  What  of  it?" 

Downley.  Certainly  ;  and,  if  it  would  oblige  you,  I'll 
read  it  again,  though  I'd  rather  not.  I  want  my  dinner. 

FoxtOHj.     Sir,  I'm  getting  hot. 

Downley.  Well,  my  dipuer's  getting  cold  ;  and  that's 
of  more  consequence  to  me.  Now,  sir,  what  do  you 
want  of  me? 

Foxton.     I  want  my  wife. 

Downley.  Well,  poor  fellow,  I  suppose  you  do.  We're 
always  wanting  that  which  can  do  us  no  good.  I'm  very 
sorry  I  can  give  you  no  information  which  might  lead  to 
her  discovery. 

Foxton.  This  won't  do,  sir.  'Tis  evident  to  me  that 
you  have  been  tampering  with  the  affections  of  my  wife, 
that  it  was  you  who  wrote  that  note  ;  for  I  find  'twas 
you  who  engaged  this  room,  and  here  I  find  you  about 
to  sit  down  to  a  table  evidently  prepared  for  two. 

Downley.  Look  here,  Foxy !  I'm  a  man  of  calm 
temper.  I  do  detest  those  who  get  into  a  passion  :  so  I 
tell  you,  calmly  and  deliberately,  Foxy,  you're  a  goose,  — 
a  lunatic,  —  a  booby  !  Confound  it !  I  never  saw  your 
wife,  don't  want  your  wife,  and  know  nothing  about 
her. 

Foxton.  It  won't  do.  This  is  a  calm,  deliberate 
plot  to  rob  me  of  my  wife.  Sir,  you  must  first  give  me 


230  THIRTY   MINUTES  FOB   REFRESHMENTS. 

my  wife,  and   then    make    reparation    for  these    insults. 
You  shall  be  made  to  pay  for  this. 

Downley.  Pay !  A  case  of  black-mail.  I  see  it, 
Foxy.  (Eings  bell  on  table.)  I'll  settle  with  you  at 
once. 

Enter  CLABENCE,  c. 

!.«     Clar.     Ring,  Massa  Dowuley? 

Downley.     Yes.     Clarence,  how  is  your  muscle? 
v*   Clar.     Golly,  massa,  dar  ain't  none  in  de  place.     Got 
some  'ysters,  do. 

Downley.     Pshaw,  stupid !  .    Do   you    see    that    indi- 
vidual ? 
.     Clar.     Yaas,  sar  :   I  speck  I  does. 

Downley.  Remove  him  immediately  from  this  apart- 
ment. No  words.  Quick  !  Foxy,  it  won't  do. 

Clar.     Massa  Foxy,  dar's  de  door. 

Foxton.  I  will  not  leave  this  apartment  without  my 
wife.  You  have  stolen  her  from  me :  return  her  instantly  ! 

Clar.  Yaas,  sir.  Send  her  right  along  by  express, 
C.  O.  D.  Going,  sir? 

Foxton.     Keep  your  black  hands  off  of  me  ! 
\,\,Clar.     Why,  Lord  bres  yer,  it  won't  come  off!     Dose 
fast  colors.     Dar's  de  door. 

Foxton.  Very  well.  Since  I  can  receive  no  satisfac- 
tion from  you,  the  engines  of  the  law  shall  be  set  at 
work.  Yes,  sir,  the  engines  of  the  law  !  Villain,  swin- 
dler, kidnapper !  (Exit,  c.) 

•tfClar.     He's   gone,  massa,  arter   de   ingine.     I'll  jes' 
keep   my  eye  on   dat   ar   feller.      He's  wanting  rubbin'- 
ilown,  I  guess.     (Exit,  c.) 

Downley.     Coui'ouud  these  excursion  trains  !     Isn't  it 


THIRTY   MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS.  231 

enough  that  I  have  been  hunted  by  all  the  mothers  who 
have  unmarried  daughters,  without  being  called  upon  to 
hunt  up  other  men's  wives?  This  is  some  swindling 
dodge,  to  get  money  from  me  ;  but  it  won't  do.  I'm  too 
old  a  bird  to  be  caught  by  such  chaff.  Ten  minutes  gone  ! 
And  I  was  goiug  to  have  such  a  nice,  comfortable  meal ! 
The  meat's  cold,  the  potatoes  turning  black,  and  the 
coffee  as  dull  as  dishwater.  Confound  these  excursion 
trains  !  {Sits  at  table,  as  before,  about  to  eat,  when  enter 
Miss  ARABELLA  PEPPER,  R.) 

Miss  P.  John.  (Louder.)  John.  (Still  louder.) 
Dear  John. 

Downley  (dropping  his  food).  Now,  who  the  deuce  is 
that?  Well,  what  is  it? 

Miss  P.     Did  you  think  I  wasn't  coming? 

Downley.  Well,  I  must  say,  I  hadn't  any  great  ex- 
pectations of  seeing  you.  (Aside.)  Oh  my  dinner  ! 

Miss  P.  And  could  you  think  so  meanly  of  me,  after 
your  dear  note. 

Downley.  My  dear  note?  Madam,  I'm  an  unpro- 
tected bachelor,  alone  in  this  apartment.  I'm  a  little 
pressed  for  time,  and  very  hungry.  If  you'll  oblige  me 
with  an  explanation,  I  shall  be  grateful. 

Miss  P.  Bachelor !  Yes,  indeed :  I  knew  that  the 
minute  I  set  my  eyes  on  you  in  the  cars.  Says  I  to 
myself,  Arabella,  there  are  faces  which  instantly  attract 
the  attention  of  truly  tender-hearted  females.  Such  a 
face  is  that  which  appears  above  the  gray  suit  in  the 
next  seat.  I  saw  your  tender  glances  fixed  upon  my 
face.  I  heard  your  profound  sighs.  And  says  I  to 
myself,  Arabella,  be  brave,  be  bold  ;  shrink  not,  for  your 
time  has  come. 


2C2  THIRTY   MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS. 

Downley.  My  tender  glances?  (Aside.)  Why,  the 
old  fool's  mad. 

Miss  P.  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  dear 
John.  I  saw  at  once  you  were  struck  with  me,  and  my 
tender,  susceptible  heart  responded  at  once.  Oh,  this  is 
so  romantic,  so  idealistic  ! 

Downley.  (Aside.)  She  calls  me  John.  Who  can 
she  be?  (Aloud.)  Madam,  will  you  confide  to  me  — 

Miss  P.  Certainly.  Could  you  suppose  for  a  moment 
that  I  would  be  reticent  in  the  presence  of  one  who  has 
so  trustingly,  so  innocently,  so  gushingly,  so  admirably, 
so  discreetly  — 

Downley.  Oh,  I  shall  go  mad !  Madam,  I  don't 
wish  to  hurry  you,  but  you  will  oblige  me  by  telling  me 
instantly  the  cause  of  this  visit. 

Miss  P.     And  doesn't  my  John  know? 

Downley.  Well,  I  can't  answer  for  your  John  ;  but 
my  John  doesn't. 

Miss  P.     Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  your  note,  John  ? 

Downley.     My  note? 

Miss  P.  I  received  it,  and  immediately  on  the  arrival 
of  the  train  came  here  to  meet  you. 

Downley.  My  note?  And  will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  let  me  see  my  note? 

Miss  P.  Certainly,  John.  Much  as  I  hate  to  part 
with  this  dear  token  of  your  devoted  love  and  admira- 
tion, you  shall  have  it.  Good  gracious !  where's  my 
reticule?  'Twas  in  the  reticule,  and  my  reticule  is  gone. 
Dear  me.  I  must  have  left  it  in  the  cars.  I  wouldn't 
lose  it  for  fifty  dollars.  I  won't  be  gone  long,  John. 
Dear  John.  (Exit,  R.) 


THIRTY   MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS.  233 

Downley.  Is  this  a  lunatic  asylum,  or  an  eating-house  ? 
What  is  the  matter  with  that  old  tabby  ?  Devoted  love,  — 
Bah!  Admiration  for  her,  —  Humbug!  This  is  some 
new  invention  of  the  enemy.  But  how  in  the  world  did 
she  get  my  name.  (Looks  at  watch.)  Goodness  gra- 
cious !  how  time  flies  !  Twenty  minutes  gone,  and  my 
cliuner  untouched,  when  I  was  going  to  have  a  nice, 
comfortable  time  !  I  must  gobble  it  in  a  hurry.  Con- 
found excursion  trains  !  (Sits,  and  about  to  eat.) 

Enter,  R.,  MAJOR  PEPPER  (reticule  in  his  hand). 

Major.  Fire  and  fury !  Drop  that  fork !  Quick ! 
Do  you  hear?  (Seizes  DOWNLEY  by  the  arm,  and  leads 
him  down,  C.)  . 

Downley.     Now  what's  the  matter? 

Major.  Abduction,  —  treachery,  —  blighted  affection  ! 
That's  what's  the  matter. 

Downley.  Look  here,  old  fire  and  fury  !  I'm  a  calm, 
peaceable  citizen,  unused  to  gladiatorial  contests,  unac- 
quainted with  feats  of  broil  and  battle  :  but  I  want  my 
dinner ;  and,  if  you  don't  immediately  vacate  my  apart- 
ment, I'll  brain  you,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  John  Downley  ! 

Major.  John,  —  John,  —  John!  That's  it.  There's 
no  mistake.  So,  sir,  I've  caught  you  at  your  tricks. 
Where's  my  sister?  Where  is  she? 

Downley.  Sister?  First,  one  man  demands  of  me  his 
wife,  then  another  his  sister.  Is  there  anybody  else 
about  here  who's  looking  for  relations?  Anybody  lost 
an  aunt  or  a  grandmother? 

Major.  This  won't  do.  Listen  to  me.  I  am  Major 
Pepper,  of  the  army.  It  was  my  misfortune  to  have 


234  THIRTY  MINUTES   FOR    REFRESHMENTS. 

charge  of  a  rather  elderly  sister  on  this  train.  I  left  her 
in  one  car,  and  seated  myself  in  the  smoking-car.  Upon 
the  arrival  of  the  train,  I  hurried  off  to  secure  this  room. 
It  was  engaged.  I  went  back  to  the  cars  to  get  my 
sister,  having  previously  sent  her  a  short  note,  telling 
her  to  meet  me  at  this  room.  Sir,  she  was  gone.  But 
she  had  left  her  reticule  behind  her,  and  in  that  reticule 
I  found  this  note.  Read  it. 

Downley.  Well,  look  here,  Pepper.  I've  no  objec- 
tion to  reading  it ;  but  this  thing  is  getting  monotonous. 
However,  here  goes.  {Reads.)  "Dearest, — I  long  to 
meet  you  alone,  to  tell  you  how  fondly  I  love  you,  to 
press  you  to  my  loving  heart.  On  the  arrival  of  the 
train  at  Highland  Station,  hasten  at  once  to  room  D.  I 
will  hurry  and  engage  it.  Ever  yours,  JOHN." 

Major.     Now,  sir,  what  do  you  say  to  that? 

Downley.  What  do  I  say?  What  in  the  world  do  I 
know  about  it?  {Aside.)  Good  gracious!  It  must  be 
the  elderly  female  who  was  here  a  moment  ago. 

Major.     Now,  sir,  where's  my  sister? 

Downley.  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  She  was  here  a 
moment  ago. 

Major.  Oh,  she  was !  Then  I  am  correct  in  my 
suspicions.  You're  a  nice  man,  you  are.  Travelling 
about  the  country,  luring  respectable  females  from  their 
protectors  with  your  notes.  But  you  waked  the  wrong 
passenger  this  time.  As  you're  so  much  in  love  with 
my  sister,  you  shall  marry  her  at  once. 

Downley.     Marry  her  !     Look  here,  Pepper  — 

Major.  Don't  Pepper  me.  The  honor  of  our  family 
imperatively  demands  reparation  for  this  insult.  I  don't 


THIRTY  MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS.  235 

much  admire  your  taste  ;  but,  as  you're  so  much  in  love 
with  her,  why  she  shall  be  yours  without  delay. 

Downley.     But  one  moment,  major  — 

Major.  No  words,  sir.  I  have  taken  this  matter 
into  my  own  hands.  There  is  a  friend  of  mine,  a  clergy- 
man, travelling  with  me.  He  will  perform  the  cere- 
mony. In  five  minutes  you  shall  be  a  married  man. 
(Exit,  c.) 

Downley.  Look  here,  Pepper,  you're  too  hot.  It's 
no  use.  He's  gone.  Oh,  he  must  be  a  lunatic  !  Marry 
that  old  maid?  I'd  sooner  starve.  Oh,  gracious!  My 
dinner !  Only  five  minutes  before  the  train  starts  !  I 
wish  husbands,  wives,  brothers,  and  sisters  were  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Here  I'm  swindled  out  of  a 
capital  dinner :  only  a  chance  for  a  bite.  Confound 
excursion  trains  !  (Sits  as  before  •  about  to  eat.) 

Enter  MRS.  FOXTON. 

Mrs.  F.  It's  about  time  John  arrived,  I  should  say. 
(Sees  DOWNLEY.  Screams.)  A  man  in  my  room? 

Downley.  Hallo  !  What's  the  matter  now  ?  (  Comes 
down.)  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  did  you  speak? 

Mrs.  F.  Sir,  leave  this  apartment  instantly,  before 
my  John  sees  you. 

Downley.  Hallo !  She's  got  a  John  too !  I  beg 
your  pardon,  madam.  To  what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure 
of  this  visit? 

Mrs.  F.  Don't  speak  to  me.  Go  at  once.  You  have 
no  right  here. 

Downley.     Oh,  yes,  I  have  !     I  engaged  this  room. 

Mrs.  F.     Have  I  made  a  mistake  ?     Is  this  room  D  ? 


236  THIRTY  MINUTES   FOR  REFRESHMENTS. 

Downley.  It  certainly  is,  and  I  am  the  rightful  pos- 
sessor of  ft  at  the  present  time. 

Mrs.  F.  What  does  this  mean?  Who  are  you? 
Where's  my  John? 

Downley.     I  am  the  only  John  here. 

Mrs.  F.  Mercy  J  I  have  been  betrayed  !  This  is  a 
wicked  plot.  If  you  don't  leave  this  room  at  once,  I'll 
scream  for  help. 

Downley.     But,  my  dear  — 

Mrs.  F.     I  ain't  your  dear  !     You're  a  wicked  wretch. 

Downley.  (Aside.)  Well,  here's  a  pleasant  predica- 
ment. (Aloud.)  Madam,  I  assure  you  this  is  my  room. 

Mrs.  F.     Oh,  dear!     What  shall  I  do? 

Enter  Miss  PEPPER,  R. 

Miss  P.  I  can't  find  hide  nor  hair  of  that  reticule. 
Dear  me,  what  a  misfortune  !  I  don't  know  where  that 
note  is,  John. 

Mrs.  F.     John? 

Miss  P.  Goodness  gracious  !  John,  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this?  A  lady  here,  after  your  note  to  me?  Oh, 
John!.  How  could  you? 

Mrs.  F.     Has  this  gentleman  written  you  a  note? 

Miss  P.     Yes,  indeed.     A  sweet  epistle. 

Mrs.  F.     Inviting  you  to  meet  him  here? 

Miss  P.     Exactly  so.     Room  D. 

Downley.     It's  no  such  thing.     It's  a  mistake. 

Mrs.  F.  I  also  received  a  note,  telling  me  to  come 
here.  I  thought  the  handwriting  was  very  coarse.  Oh, 
it's  very  evident  that  we  are  the  victims  of  a  base,  de- 
signing man  ! 


THIRTY   MINUTES   FOR    REFRESHMENTS.  237 

Miss  P.  What!  You  don't  mean  it?  Didn't  I  re- 
ceive a  note  from  this  man,  full  of  love  and  tenderness? 

Downley.     No  :  you  didn't ! 

Miss  P.     Oh,  dear  !     Are  all  my  fond  hopes  crushed? 

Downley.     Will  you  allow  me  one  word? 

Mrs.  F.     Don't  let  him  speak. 

Miss  P.     To  think  that  man  could  so  deceive  ! 

Downley.  I  tell  you,  it's  all  a  mistake.  I'm  a  poor 
bachelor,  just  sitting  down  to  my  solitary  repast.  I  have 
written  no  notes  ;  don't  know  either  of  you  ;  don't  expect 
company ;  detest  the  whole  female  sex,  and  wish  you 
were  all  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Those  are  my  senti- 
ments, and  I  want  my  dinner. 

Miss  P.     Abuse  our  sex  !     You  deceitful  man. 

Mrs.  F.     He's  a  miserable  swindler. 

Downley.  Spare  your  compliments,  and  oblige  me  by 
vacating  my  room. 

Mrs.  F.  So  that  you  can  make  your  escape?  I  shall 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  insist  upon  remaining  until 
somebody  comes  to  protect  me. 

Miss  P.  And  so  do  I.  I'm  an  unprotected  female. 
Send  for  the  officers  of  the  law. 

Downley.  Very  well :  if  you  won't  go,  I  shall.  You 
are  welcome  to  my  dinner.  I  only  hope  you  may  have 
as  much  trouble  in  eating  it  as  I  have. 

Mrs.  F.  You  shall  not  go.  (Seizing  his  right  arm.) 
Help  !  Help  !  Police  ! 

Miss  P.  (Seizing  his  left  arm.)  Police !  Help ! 
Help! 

Downley.  Ladies,  this  is  absurd,  ridiculous.  (Backs 
up  stage,  upsets  table,  and  is  seated  upon  the  debris,  as 


238  THIRTY  MINUTES  FOR   REFRESHMENTS. 

enter,   R.   anc£  c.,  MAJOR   PEPPER,  MR.  FOXTON,  and 
CLARENCE.) 

Foxton.     Hallo!     What's  the  matter,  Angelina? 

Mrs.  F.     My  husband  ! 

Major.     Arabella,  what  does  this  mean? 

Miss  P.     O  Elijah  !  such  an  escape  ! 

Mrs.  F.     O  John  \  the  monster  ! 

Miss  P.     O  Elijah  !  the  gay  deceiver  ! 
.  fc    Clar.     Massa  Downley,  has  yer  broke  any  t'ing  ? 

Downley.  Will  somebody,  male  or  female,  oblige  me 
with  an  explanation  of  this  ridiculous  situation? 

Foxton.  You  scoundrel !  You  decoyed  my  wife  to 
this  apartment. 

Downley.     I  deny  it. 

Major.     Fire  and  fury  !     Didn't  you  entrap  my  sister? 

Downley.  Not  a  trap.  I'm  as  innocent  of  guile  as 
the  babe  unborn.  I'm  an  unfortunate  bachelor,  and  I'm 
awful  hungry. 

Foxton.     Didn't  you  send  my  wife  that  note  ? 

Downley.     No. 

Major.     Isn't  this  note  written  by  you? 

Downley.  No.  Look  here,  Foxes  and  Peppers  !  It's 
my  opinion  that  you  are  a  lot  of  swindlers,  male  and 
female ;  but  you  get  nothing  out  of  me,  either  money  or 
marriage. 

Major.     I  want  satisfaction. 

Foxion.     I  want  reparation. 

Downley.     And  I  want  my  dinner. 

lA  Clar.  I  beg  your  pardon,  gents  and  ladies.  Dere's  a 
little  mifstake  here,  I  t'ink.  Will  you  obligate  me  wid 
de  sight  of  dat  are  note,  Massa  Major? 


THIRTY   MINUTES   FOR   REFRESHMENTS.  239 

Major.     Certainly.      (Gives  note.) 
I*  Clar.     And  you,  Massa  Fox? 

Foxton.     Certainly.      (Gives  note.} 

j>    Clar.     Now,  if  you  please,  I  will  jes'  change  dem  dis 
way,  and  dare  you  is.      (Gives  each  a  note.} 

Foxton.     Why,  this  is  the  note  I  sent  my  wife ! 
l~*Clar.     Dat  what  I  fought !     Dat  what  I  fought ! 

Major.     And  this  the  note  I  sent  ray  sister. 
^  Clar.     Jes'  so,  massa,  jes'  so.      Yer  see,  it  was  all  a 
mistake  of  dis  yer'  cullered  pusson. 

Downley.  (Seizing  CLARENCE  by  the  throat.}  You 
scoundrel !  Then  it's  you  who  made  me  lose  my  dinner  ! 
^  Clar.  Don't  fool,  Massa  Dowuley,  don't  fool.  It 
was  all  dem  excursioner  fellows.  Dey  crowded  de  cars 
so,  dat  when  I  was  a-going  fro  dat  car,  I  tumbled  over  a 
big  foot,  and  went,  ker-sprawl,  all  in  a  heap.  De  notes 
flew  one  way,  and  I  flew  de  odder ;  and,  when  I  got 
picked  up,  we  was  all  mixed  togedder.  So  I  did  de  best 
I  could,  and  gib  de  ladies  one  apiece. 

Downley.  You  stupid  blunderhead !  I'll  fix  you  for 
this. 

v,^  Clar.     Don't  trouble  yourse'f,  Massa  Downley.     I'se 
all  right  now. 

Major.     Well,  I'm  entirely  satisfied. 

Foxton.     I'm  sure  I  want  no  better  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  F.  Dear  me,  John,  we  owe  the  gentleman  an 
apology. 

Miss  P.  Well,  I  never  !  He  ought  not  to  be  a  bach- 
elor. 

Downley.  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  satisfied.  But  I 
am  not.  I  came  here  for  a  nice,  quiet  meal;  instead  of 


240  THIRTY   MINUTES   FOE   REFRESHMENTS. 

which,  I   have  had  the  most  uncomfortable  half-hour  it 
has  ever  been  my  lot  to  experience. 

(  Voice  outside.)     All  aboard  !     All  aboard  ! 

Downley.     There's  the  cars,  ready  to  start. 

Enter  POLLY,  R. 

Polly.     A  note  for  you,  Mr.  Downley. 

Downley.  I  don't  want  it.  I  won't  touch  it !  I've 
been  in  deadly  peril  from  notes  in  the  hands  of  females, 
and  I'll  take  no  more.  Polly,  order  me  a  fresh  dinner. 
I'll  wait  until  the  next  train.  The  room  once  cleared, 
it  may  be  possible  to  obtain  a  quiet  meal.  Here's  a 
half-hour  lost,  spent  in  this  absurd,  ridiculous,  mixed-up 
affair,  —  unless  (to  the  audience)  you  have  received  some 
satisfaction  from  "  Thirty  Minutes  for  Refreshment." 

SITUATIONS. 
B.,  MR.  AUD  MRS.  F.,  POLLY,  DOWNLEY,  CLAR.,  MAJOR,  Miss  P.,  L. 


A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 


A    FARCE. 


CHARACTERS 

EBASTUS  APPLEJACK,  the  cider-maker. 

ZEB  APPLEJACK,  his  son. 

DEACON  PEACHBLOSSOM. 

ISAAC  PEACHBLOSSOM,  his  son. 

HANS  DEINKEE. 

Miss  PATIENCE  APPLEJACK. 

POLLY  APPLEJACK. 

HETTY  MASON. 


COSTUMES. 

EEASTITS  and  ZEB,  old-fashioned  Yankee  suits. 
DEACON,  dark  modern  suit. 
ISAAC,  genteel  modern  suit. 
HANS  DRINKER,  rusty-gray  suit. 
Miss  PATIENCE,  dark-brown  dress,  cap,  and  spectacles. 
POLLY,  red  dress,  short  sleeves,  low-necked ;  long  calico  apron ; 
hair  drawn  back,  and  twisted  into  a  pug  ;  long  ear-rings. 
HETTY  MASON,  calico  dress,  long  apron. 

SCENE.  —  Room  in  FARMER  APPLEJACK'S  house.  Sofa 
C.,  back.  Small  table  L.,  at  which  sits  Miss  PATIENCE, 
knitting.  POLLY  and  ZEB  seated  R.,  he  holding,  she 
winding,  a  skein  of  yarn. 

16  241 


242  "A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

Zeb.  Gosh  all  hemlock !  Polly,  what  air  yeou  a 
thinkin'  on  ?  Thinkin'  'bout  some  feller,  I  bet. 

Polly.  Wa'u't  doin'  nothin'  of  the  sort.  I  was 
thinkin'  'bout  my  new  Sunday  bunnet. 

Zeb.  "Well,  fashion  or  fellers,  they're  all  alike.  When 
a  gal  gits  thinkin'  'bout  either  on  'em,  she  ain't  good  for 
nothin'. 

Polly.  Precious  little  you  know  'bout  either  on  'em. 
I  heerd  Sally  Higgias  say  that  your  go-to-meetin'  coat 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  made  in  the  Revolution. 

Zeb.  Darn  Sally  Higgins !  What  does  she  know 
'bout  war,  any  how  ?  Say,  Polly,  what  was  Ike  Peach- 
blossom  sayin'  to  yeou  on  the  doorsteps  last  night? 

Polly.  None'er  your  business,  Zeb  Applejack.  What 
were  you  doin'  so  near  Hetty  Mason's  cheek,  deown  by 
the  pump,  last  night? 

Zeb.  Neow  quit,  Polly :  'twa'u't  nothin'.  Yc  see,  I 
was  a-goin'  deown  tew  the  barn,  and  Hetty,  she  was  a- 
cumin'  up  tew  the  house,  and  along  there  by  the  pump  a 
darned  big  bumble-bee  lit  on  her,  and  I  was  just  brushin' 
it  off.  That's  all. 

Polly.  That's  a  likely  story.  Yeou  know  pa  has 
forbidden  yeou  to  show  any  attention  to  Hetty  Mason. 

Zeb.  Yes ;  and  he's  forbidden  yeou  takin'  any  from 
Ike  Peachblossom.  I  guess  we're  in  the  same  boat. 

Polly.  Well,  yeou  stand  by  me,  and  I'll  stand  by 
yeou. 

Miss  Patience.  Massy  sakes  !  What  air  yeou  young 
ones  quarrelling  about? 

Polly.  Law,  Aunt  Patience,  'tain't  nothin'.  Zeb  got 
stung  by  a  bumble-bee  last  night,  and  was  telliu'  about  it. 


"A   LITTLE  MORE   CIDER."  243 

Zeb.     That's  all,  Aunt  Patience  ;  but  'twas  a  bouncer. 

Polly.     And  loaded  with  honey,  wa'n't  it,  Zeb? 

Zeb.     Darn  it,  Polly,  don't  aggravate  a  feller. 

Miss  P.  Bumble-bees  !  Oh,  they're  deceitful,  artful 
creeters  !  When  Deacon  Peachblossom  came  a-courtin' 
on  me,  —  afore  he  married  Abigail  Spooner,  —  one  arter- 
noon,  when  we  were  settiu'  on  the  doorsteps,  one  of 
them  critters  lit  right  on  to  the  end  of  his  nose, — jest  as 
he  was  a  sayin'  the  sweetest  things,  tew. 

Zeb.     Of  course.     That's  what  brought  him  there. 

Miss  P.  I  never  shall  forget  how  that  poor  feller  did 
holler.  Pie  jest  gave  one  jump,  and  then  went  teariu' 
thro'  the  village,  a-holdin'  on  to  his  nose  like  a  mad- 
man. It  spilt  his  beauty  for  a  while,  I  tell  yeou  ;  and 
spilt  a  match,  tew,  for  he  turned  right  round  and  went 
kitin'  arter  Abigail  Spooner  from  that  very  day. 

Zeb.  He's  a  darned  humbug,  any  how.  His  nose 
looks  as  though  the  bumble-bees  had  been  a-foul  of  it 
lately.  He  drinks. 

Miss  P.  Why,  Zebulon,  how  can  yeou  talk  so?  Isn't 
he  one  of  the  pillers  of  the  temperance  movement. 

Zeb.  He's  a  darned  old  humbug.  Pie's  talked  dad, 
here,  into  leaviu'  eout  cider,  when  dad  went  dowu  to 
Giueral  Court  to  legislate  last  winter. 

Miss  P.  It's  a  blessed  thing  that  they  succeeded  in 
getting  it  excepted,  for  what  would  we  have  done  for  our 
miuce-pies. 

Polly.  I  wish  cider  had  never  been  heard  of.  Here 
pa  and  Isaac  Peachblossom  must  get  to  quarrelling  about 
it ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that  Isaac  has  been  told  that 
his  company  was  not  required.  I  declare,  it's  real  mean  ! 
I  hate  cider  I 


244  "A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

Miss  P.  Law,  Polly,  how  can  yeou  talk  so?  Why, 
your  father,  ray  Brother  Erastus,  is  making  lots  er  money 
ou  it.  "Well,  no  wonder,  for  folks  do  say  that  Erastus 
Applejack's  cider  beats  the  world.  He's  makiu'  money. 

Zeb.  Yes  ;  and  gitting  stuck  up,  tew.  Look  at  Hetty 
Mason.  There's  a  gal  I  set  my  heart  on,  and  it  was  all 
right  until  this  darned  cider-bill  was  passed ;  and  then 
dad,  he  up  and  says  I  can't  marry  her,  because  she's 
poor. 

Miss  P.  Well,  Zebulon,  yeou  must  be  patient.  Your 
father  knows  what's  best  for  yeou. 

Zeb.  Does  he?  Well,  I  know  what's  best  for  me, 
tew  ;  and  that's  Hetty  Mason.  And  I'm  a-goin'  to  have 
her,  in  spite  of  all  the  dads  in  creation. 

Enter  APPLEJACK,  L. 

Applejack.  Oh,  yeou  air!  air  yeou?  Well,  I  rather 
think  I  shell  have  somethiu'  tew  say  'bout  that.  Zeb 
Applejack,  look  me  in  the  eye.  Ain't  I  been  a  father 
tew  yeou? 

Zeb.  Well,  s'posin'  yer  hev :  'twa'n't  my  fault,  was 
it? 

Applejack.    Haven't  I  provided  yer  a  liberal /edication? 

Zeb.  Supposin'  yer  hev :  yer  took  it  eout  in  boardin' 
the  schoolmaster. 

Applejack.  And  neow  yeou  want  ter  go  and  spile  all 
my  projects,  by  marrying  Hetty  Mason. 

Zeb.  Well,  dad,  where'll  yer  find  a  smarter  gal,  or  a 
prettier  gal,  than  Hetty? 

Applejack.  Waal,  Hetty's  all  very  well  in  her  place  ; 
but  sence  I've  found  eout  the  way  to  make  the  best  cider 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER."  215 

in  teown,  —  and  cider's  to  be  the  daily  and  standard 
drink  ov  the  community,  sence  the  legislatur*  has  knocked 
rumselling, —  I've  made  up  my  mind  there's  a  fortin  a- 
comin'  to  E.  Applejack,  and  the  aforesaid  E.  Applejack 
will  probably  and  eventually  be  the  biggest  man  in 
teowu  ;  and  it's  high  time  we  held  up  our  heads  a  bit. 
Hetty's  a  poor  girl.  If  yeou  must  marry,  look  higher. 
There's  Lawyer  Lawson's  daughters,  five  likely  gals. 
Why  don't  yeou  take  one  of  them? 

Zeb.  I  tell  yer,  dad,  it's  no  use  talkin'.  Hetty  Mason 
is  the  gal  of  my  choice.  I  don't  care  a  darn  for  yeour 
high  notions.  I'm  goin'  to  marry  the  gal  I  like,  and 
there  she  is. 

Enter  HETTY  MASON,  L. 

Applejack.  Yer  ain't  a  goin'  ter  do  nothin'  uv  ther 
sort.  Hetty  Mason,  yeou  jest  pack  up  yeour  band-box, 
and  start  eout  uv  this  house  at  once. 

Zeb.  Do,  Hetty  ;  and  I'll  pack  up  a  clean  shirt,  and 
go  right  along  with  yer. 

Applejack.     Yeou  won't  do  nothin'  ov  the  sort. 

Zeb.  Yaas,  I  will.  Yeou  turn  her  eout,  and  yeou 
turn  me  eout. 

Applejack.  Hetty  Mason,  yeou  needn't  pack  yer  band- 
box jest  yet. 

Hdty.  Well,  I  declare !  I'm  getting  tired  of  this. 
It's  the  same  thing  every  day.  u  Pack  your  band-box, 
and  don't  pack  your  band-box."  If  you  two,  father  and 
son,  would  come  to  some  .conclusion  regarding  my  future 
welfare,  it  would  spare  my  wardrobe  a  great  deal  of 
tumbling. 

Polly.  Don't  mind  them,  Hetty.  It  will  come  out 
all  right. 


246  "A  LITTLE  MORE   CIDER." 

Hetty.     Well,  I  hope  it  will,  for  I'm  getting  tired  of  it. 

Applejack.  We'll  talk  this  over  some  other  time,  when 
you're  cooler.  But  miud,  Zebtilon,  no  sparking  round 
my  house.  I  won't  have  it. 

Enter  HANS  DRINKER,  R. 

Hans.  Goot  tay,  mine  Friend  Applejack  :  it  is  varmer 
dan  never  vash,  and  I  ish  very  try.  I  vould  like  some 
trinks. 

Applejack.     Oh,  some  of  my  cider  !     Hey,  Hans? 

Hans.  Yaw,  dat  ish  goot  cider.  I  have  never  trinks 
such  goot  cider  since  veil  I  cooms  from  Faderland,  and 
dat  vash  lager  bier. 

Applejack.     Hetty,  bring  a  glass  of  cider. 

Hans.  In  a  mug.  Do  you  hear,  my  chile?  I  vill 
have  mine  glass  of  cider  in  a  mug.  It  ish  so  mooch 
better,  (aside)  and  so  mooch  larger.  (Exit  HETTY,  L.) 

Miss  P.     Well,  Mr.  Drinker,  what  is  the  news? 

Hans.  Veil,  not  mooch.  Old  Johnson  fell  into  the 
vater  last  night,  ven  he  be  very  trunk.  They  have  not 
find  him.  But  that  ish  no  matter,  'cause  he  be  not  ov 
mooch  use  now.  Miss  Murray,  she  proke  her  leg  the 
day  pefore  to-night.  Mcester  Jones,  he  failed  week 
pefore  next.  Meester  Smith  have  a  new  litter  of  pigs, 
and  Meester  Harris  have  a  new  papy  at  his  house. 
But  I  tou't  think  of  any  news,  I  pelieve. 

Enter  HETTY,  L.,  with  mug  of  cider. 

Applejack  (takes  cider,  and  passes  it  to  HANS).     There, 

Friend  Hans,  there  is  a  mug  of  the  best  cider  ever  made. 

Hans.     Dat  ish  so.     (Tastes.)    Ah,  dat  ish  goot  cider 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER."  247 

ash  never  vash.  Veil,  I  trinks  your  good  health,  Meester 
Applejack.  I  triuks  your  goot  health,  Miss  Patience. 
I  trink  your  goot  health,  Miss  Polly.  Py  jinks,  I 
trinks  all  your  goot  healths.  (Drinks.)  Ah,  dat  ish 
goot.  Meester  Applejack,  I  shall  recommend  your  cider. 

Applejack.  Thank  yeou,  Hans  ;  and,  whenever  yeou  are 
going  by,  don't  fail  to  drop  in  and  have  a  mug  of  it. 
Yeou  are  always  welcome. 

Hans.  Dat  ish  goot.  I  shall  rememper  and  call  again. 
By  dunder,  dat  is  goot  cider.  (Exit,  R.) 

Applejack.     An  honest  old  fellow,  Hans  Drinker. 

Zeb.  Honest.  P'r'aps  he  is  ;  but,  if  he  don't  skin 
yeou  out  of  a  barrel  of  cider  a'fore  he  gets  through,  my 
name's  not  Zeb  Applejack. 

Applejack.  I'll  risk  it.  But  come,  Patience,  how's 
this?  It's  seven  o'clock.  Deacon  Peachblossom  speaks 
on  temperance  at  the  vestry  at  half-past. 

Miss  P.  Massy  sakes  !  So  he  does !  (Jumps  up, 
rolls  up  her  knitting.)  I  declare,  I  wouldn't  miss  hearing 
the  deacon  for  a  goad  deal.  I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute. 
(Exit,  L.) 

Applejack.     Come,  Polly,  you'd  better  be  getting  ready. 

Polly.     I  ain't  a-going. 

Applejack.  Oh,  yes,  yeou  are  !  S'pose  yeou  want  to 
stay  at  home,  in  hopes  that  Isaac  Peachblossom  will 
happen  about  here  when  I'm  away.  Come,  get  ready. 
Yeou,  tew,  Zeb. 

Zeb.     Me  !     I  ain't  a-goin'. 

Applejack.  Who's  the  head  ov  this  here  family,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  I  tell  yeou  you're  both  a-going.  Now 
let's  have  no  ifs,  ands,  or  buts  about  it.  , 


248  "A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

Enter  ISAAC  PEACHBLOSSOM,  B. 

Isaac.  How  are  you,  Mr.  "Applejack?  How  are  you 
Zeb?  Ah,  Polly,  I  kiss  my  hands  to  you. 

Applejack.  Well,  don't  trouble  yerself,  Isaac  Peach- 
blossom.  When  she  wants  any  kissing  done,  she  won't 
come  to  you. 

Polly.     (Aside.)     That's  a  whopper. 

Isaac.  Well,  don't  mind  me.  I  dropped  in  on  a  little 
business.  You  know  the  legislature  last  year  passed  a 
bill  exempting  cider  from  the  prohibition  law.  Of  course 
you  do,  for  we've  had  many  an  argument  about  it,  —  you 
contending  for  cider  as  a  harmless  and  necessary  bev- 
erage, I  contending  that'  it  was  an  intoxicating  drink. 
My  father  took  sides  with  you  and  you  triumphed  in 
the  legislature,  punishing  me  for  my  opposition  by  break- 
ing off  the  contemplated  marriage  of  your  daughter  and 
myself. 

Applejack.  Well,  what  in  thunder  is  all  this  coming 
to? 

Isaac.  Listen.  In  this  town,  no  sooner  was  it  made 
legal  than  there  appeared  to  be  a  determination  on  the 
part  of  everybody  to  take  to  drinking  cider. 

Applejack.  Of  course.  A  harmless  and  necessary 
beverage. 

Isaac.  (Producing  letter.)  Well,  I  don't  believe  that, 
you  know.  But,  however,  I  couldn't  understand  it. 
But  the  matter's  all  out.  A  friend  of  mine,  residing  in 
Boston,  writes  me  (reads),  "  I  must  put  you  up  to  a  new 
dodge  of  your  country  prohibitionists.  Now  cider  is 
exempted,  we  have  an  unusually  large  call  for  empty 
whiskey-barrels.  The  parties  who  make  cider  buy  them 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 


to  put  their  cider  in,  as  whiskey  gives  a  particular  flavor 
to  the  cider.  This  is  bad  enough  for  those  who  profess  to 
be  so  temperate  ;  but  one  old  fellow,  who  lives  not  a  great 
way  from  your  town,  buys  regularly  six  barrels  a  week, 
with  particular  directions  to  have  one-third  of  the  whiskey 
usually  contained  in  the  barrel  left  in.  Pretty  sharp 
practice,  hey  ! " 

Zeb.  I  should  think  so.  Why,  it's  a  downright 
swindle. 

Polly.     What  rascality  ! 

Applejack.  That  man — that  man  —  that  man  —  ought 
to  be  cut  off  from  respectable  society. 

Isaac.  Of  course  he  had.  And  I'm  determined  to 
find  him  out  and  punish  him. 

Applejack.  Well,  I  hope  you  will.  Where  ou  earth 
is  Patience?  We  shall  be  late  for  lecture.  (Goes  B., 
and  calls.)  Patience,  Patience.  (Exit  it.) 

Zeb.  (Crosses  to  HETTY,  R.)  I  s'pose  I've  got  to  go, 
Hetty ;  but  I'll  be  back  here  in  fifteen  minutes. 

Polly.  (Crosses  to  ISAAC,  L.)  I've  got  to  go  to  that 
plaguy  lecture  ;  but,  just  as  soon  as  I've  got  there,  I'm 
going  to  sneak  out  and  come  right  here. 

Isaac.  A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient,  Polly.  Good- 
day,  Zeb.  (Exit  L.) 

Zeb.     Good-day,  Ike. 

Patience.  (Outside.)  Erastus,  don't  swear  so.  You're 
the  awfullest  man  that  ever  I  did  see.  I  can't  help  it, 
if  I  do  lose  my  specs. 

Applejack.  Well,  come  along,  and  hold  yeour  tongue. 
(Enter  APPLEJACK  and  Miss  PATIENCE,  L.,  shawled  and 
bonneted.)  Now,  then,  Polly,  git  yeour  things ;  and. 


250  "A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

yeou,  Zeb,  git  yeour  hat.     It's  time  we  were  off.     (Exit 
ZEB,  L.,  POLLY,  R.) 

Patience.  So,  Deacon  Peachblossom's  a-goiu'  to  give 
his  idees  on  temperance.  Well,  I  like  the  deacon. 

Applejack.  That's  what  folks  says,  Sister  Patience. 
They  all  think  yeou'd  be  mighty  glad  to  step  into  the 
late  Mrs.  Peachblossom's  shoes. 

Patience.  La,  do  they?  Well,  they  might  say  worse 
things  ;  for,  if  I  do  say  it  as  hadn't  orter,  if  there  is  a 
livin'  woman  on  the  face  of  this  earth,  in  face,  figger, 
and  ability,  capable  of  takin'  the  place  of  Abigail  Spooner, 
I'm  that  woman. 

Applejack.  Waal,  I  hope  yeou  won't  be  disappinted. 
But  yeou  ain't  so  young  as  yeou  was  thirty  years  ago. 

Patience.     Erastus ! 

Applejack.  Yer  not  a  tempting  morsel  to  a  widower  ; 
for  they  do  say  they're  awful  perticular  peeple,  and  gray 
hair  — 

Patience.     Erastus ! 

Applejack.  Well,  I  won't  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag, 
Patience. 

Enter  ZEB,  L.,  and  POLLY,  R. 

Applejack.  Neow,  then,  let's  be  off  to  lecture.  Here, 
Zeb,  yeou  take  yer  Aunt  Patience,  and  I'll  look  arter 
Polly.  (ZEB  gives  PATIENCE  his  arm,  APPLEJACK  gives 
his  to  POLLY.)  Neow,  then,  forward  —  march. 

Enter  HANS  DRINKER,  L. 

Hans.  By  donder,  dat  ish  de  best  cider  ash  never 
vas. 

Applejack.     Hallo,  Hans,  back  again  ? 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER."  251 

Hans.  Yaw,  Meester  Applejack.  I  leave  von  leetle 
pit  of  de  cider  in  de  mug  ;  but  I  coorned  pack  for  it. 

Applejack.  Ah  !  Ycou  want  another  mug,  yeou. ras- 
cal. Here,  Het.ty  (enter  HETTY,  L.)  !  Bring  Haus  a  mug 
of  cider.  Make  yerself  at  home,  Hans.  We  must  be 
off  to  lecture.  (Exit  APPLEJACK  and  POLLY,  PATIENCE 
and  ZEB,  R.) 

Hans.  Veil,  never  you  mind  me.  I  pe  all  right.  Now, 
mine  chile,  you  hear  vhat  de  ole  man  say.  I'll  take 
mine  mug  of  cider. 

Hetty.     Why,  you've  just  drank  nearly  a  quart ! 

Hans.  A  quart !  No,  mine  chile,  you  are  meestaken. 
I  have  not  trink  a  quart. 

Hetty.     I'm  sure  of  it. 

Hans.  By  donder,  it  cannot  been.  Mine  chile,  bring 
me  de  quart,  till  I  see  for  mineself.  (Exit  HETTY,  L.) 
By  doiider,  dat  ish  goot  cider.  I  vish  I  vas  de  man  vat 
make  dat  cider.  I  vould  never  get  up  some  more,  but 
vould  lay  in  mine  bed  all  de  time,  and  trink  cider. 

Enter  HETTY,  L.,  with  mug. 

Hetty.  There,  Mr.  Drinker,  is  the  same  mug.  'Tis 
full  now,  and  it  holds  a  quart. 

Hans.  Ish  dat  de  mug?  By  donder,  I  did  not  think 
it  would  held  so  mooch.  A  quart.  But  I  did  not  triuk 
it  all.  I  could  not  triuk  it  all.  I  vill  show  you  I  could 
not  trink  it  all.  (Drinks,  and  turns  over  mug.) 

Hetty.     There,  you  see  it  is  all  gone. 

Hans.  Mine  chile,  it  has  gone.  I  never  did  see  any 
ting  go  so  quick  in  my  life. 

Hetty.  Nor  I,  either.  I  should  think  you  had  enough 
to  last  you  a  week. 


252  "A    LITTLE  MORE    CIDER." 

Hans.  You  do  !  Veil,  so  do  I ;  but  I  have  not.  By 
donder,  dat  is  goot  cider,  mine  chile.  (Exit,  R.) 

Hetty.  Well,  I'm  glad  he's  gone.  I  guess  Mr.  Apple- 
jack will  repent  of  his  invitation,  for  he'll  be  sure  to 
pester  us  with  his  attentions  as  long  as  there  is  any  cider 
about.  I'll  light  a  candle,  and  sit  down  and  wait  for 

Zeb. 

Enter  ZEB,  L. 

Zeb.  Well,  I  managed  to  git  Aunt  Patience  off  my 
hands,  without  going  into  the  vestry.  Who  should  come 
along,  when  we  were  half-way,  but  Deacon  Peachblossom. 
The  minit  Aunt  Patience  saw  him,  she  began  to  fidgit. 
So  I  managed  to  get  him  up  on  the  other  side  of  her, 
and  then  I  scooted. 

Hetty.  Very  well ;  and  now,  Mr.  Zeb  Applejack, 
that  we  are  alone  once  more,  will  you  oblige  me  with  a 
plain  statement  of  your  intentions. 

Zeb.  (Sits  on  sofa  with  HETTY.)  My  intention  is  to 
marry  you  one  of  these  days. 

Hetty.     Is  it?     One  of  these  days  won't  do. 

Zeb.  Why,  Hetty!  Don't  you  know  I  love  you, — 
that  you're  the  apple  of  my  eye,  —  that  I  shall  die  with- 
out you,  —  that  I  feel  —  I  feel  —  I  feel  — 

Hetty.  There,  don't  go  to  singing  that  old  song :  it's 
played  out.  I  decline  entering  into  any  engagement 
with  you  in  the  present  unsettled  state  of  affairs.  Either 
your  father  gives  his  consent  before  this  time  to-morrow, 
or  I  leave  the  house,  never  to  return. 

Zeb.     But,  Hetty,  don't  be  so  quick. 

Hetty.  Zeb,  don't  be  so  slow.  We  have  been  wait- 
ing, waiting,  waiting,  until  I  am  heartily  sick  of  the 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER."  253 

delay.  You  know  I  love  you,  or  you  would  never  let 
me  be  abused  —  in  this  —  wicked  —  manner  —  by  —  that 
—  ugly  • —  old  —  man.  (Sobs,  and  falls  into  ZEE'S  arms.) 

Zeb.  Neow,  Hetty,  don't  cry.  I'll  have  it  settled 
to-morrow,  if  I  have  to  lick  dad  till  he  gives  his  consent. 
I  ain't  afraid  of  him.  When  he  comes,  I'll  jest  give  him 
a  piece  of  my  mind.  (Noise  outside,  R.)  Thunder ! 
what's  that? 

Hetty.     Somebody  coming  back. 

Zeb.     Oh,  law  !     Suppose  it's  dad.     What  shall  I  do? 

Hetty.     Why,  give  him  a  piece  of  your  mind. 

Zeb.  But  not  neow.  He's  comin'  this  way,  Hetty. 
I'm  sorry  to  lose  your  company,  but  I'm  going  under  the 
sofa.  (  Crawls  under  sofa,  head  to  R.) 

Hetty.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  stay  here  and  be  found 
out.  (Exit,  L.) 

Zeb.     I  wonder  who  on  airth  that  is,  anyhow. 

Enter  ISAAC  and  POLLY,  R. 

Isaac.  Safe  inside.  Now,  Polly,  just  get  a  light,  for 
it's  dark  as  pitch. 

Polly.  No,  indeed  I  sha'n't !  I  wouldn't  get  a  light 
for  the  world.  If  pa  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  come 
home,  he'd  be  sure  to  make  a  fuss  about  it. 

Isaac.  All  right.  I'm  contented.  Here's  the  sofa. 
Sit  down,  and  let's  have  a  little  quiet  chat. 

Polly.  Of  course.  But  won't  you  have  a  glass  of 
cider? 

Isaac.  No,  I  thank  you.  You  know  I'm  opposed  to 
its  use. 

Polly.  Yes,  I  do  know  it ;  but  I  forgot  it  at  the 
moment. 


254  "A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

Isaac.     Polly,  do  you  know  I  love  you  very  dearly? 

Polly.     I  hope  you  do,  Isaac. 

Isaac.  And  I'm  going  to  marry  you  Thanksgiving 
night,  if  you'll  consent  to  make  me  happy. 

Polly.     You  know  I'll  consent.     But  father  — 

Isaac.  Is  not  inclined  to  at  present ;  but  I'll  find  a 
way  to  make  him,  I  think.  You  remember  my  reading 
a  letter  here  this  afternoon  ? 

Polly.     Yes,  from  a  friend  of  yours  in  Boston. 

Isaac.  Telling  me  that  somebody  had  been  ordering 
whiskey-barrels,  with  a  little  whiskey  left  in. 

Polly.     Yes,  I  remember. 

Isaac.  I  did  not  give  you  all  the  information  I  had, 
for  my  friend  gave  me  the  name  of  the  party. 

Polly.     Who  was  it? 

Isaac.     Erastus  Applejack. 

Polly.     My  father ! 

Isaac.  Your  father,  who  has  helped  to  make  a  law 
which  he  is  now  breaking  by  swindling  of  the  meanest 
description. 

Polly.     Why,  everybody  is  buying  his  cider. 

Isaac.     Scenting  the  whiskey  concealed  in  it. 

Polly.     Oh,  this  is  too  bad  !     What  will  you  do? 

Isaac.  Prove  his  swindling,  and  then  give  him  the 
choice,  to  relinquish  its  sale,  or  public  exposure,  with  a 
slight  condition  added. 

Polly.  Which  I  can  guess.  (Noise  outside.)  Who 
is  that?  Oh,  dear!  it  must  be  father  returned.  What 
shall  we  do? 

Isaac.  I  don't  want  to  see  him  just  yet.  I'd  better 
go  by  the  back  way.  • 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER.''  255 

Polly.     "Well,  come  quick:  this  way.     (Exeunt,  L.) 

Zeb.  What  a  darned  scamp  dad  is,  anyway !  I 
guess  I'll  git  eout,  aud  crawl  up  stairs.  No :  there's 
somebody  coming.  * 

Enter  HANS  DRINKER,  R. 

Hans.  By  douder !  I  never  did  see  such  cider.  Vhere 
ish  everypody.  In  der  peds,  I  s'phose.  Veil,  I  vill  not 
trouble  dem  at  all,  but  vill  go  to  de  cellar  and  gits  mine 
mugs  of  cider.  (Goes,  L.)  By  donder,  de  door  ish 
locked,  and  ter  key  stolen  mit  somepody.  (Noise  outside, 
R.)  Hark !  I  hear  some  peeples  coom  dis  way.  By 
douder !  vhat  vill  I  do  mit  myself?  Dey  vill  tink  me 
somepody  else,  coomed  for  der  money.  I  vill  hide  for 
mineself,  till  dey  pe  gone  some  more.  (Crawls  under 
sofa,  head  L.)  By  donder !  dere  ish  somepody  here 
pefore  me. 

Zeb.     What  in  thunder  do  you  want  here? 

Hans.     Vhat  you  vant  mit  yourself,  mine  frien'. 

Zeb.     Clear  out,  or  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body. 

Hans.  Take  care  mit  yourself,  mine  frien',  take  care 
mit  yourself. 

Zeb.     Keep  yeour  boots  out  of  my  mouth. 

Hans.  By  donder !.  mine  frien',  you  preak  your  toe 
mit  mine  nose. 

Zeb.     Keep  still.     There's  somebody  coming. 

Hans.     By  donder  !     I  yust  lose  mine  cider. 

Enter  PATIENCE,  followed  by  DEACON  PEACHBLOSSOM. 

Patience.     Sh  — 
Zeb.     Sh  — 
Hans.     Sh  — 


256  "A   LITTLE   MORE    CIDER." 

Patience.     Don't  speak  so  loud. 

Deacon.     My  friend,  I  didn't  speak  at  all. 

Patience.  Then  it  must  have  been  the  echo.  Come 
in  quietly.  « 

Deacon.     This  is  very  mysterious. 

Patience.  My  brother  objects  to  a  light  after  certain 
hours,  so  we  are  compelled  to  be  very  cautious  in  our 
movements.  You'll  find  a  seat  here  on  the  sofa.  (DEA- 
CON sits.)  I'm  so  much  obleeged  to  yeou,  deacon,  for 
seein'  on  me  home.  Yeour  polite  attentions  are  very 
agreeable.  Sha'n't  I  git  yeou  something,  deacon? 

Deacon.  Well,  now  you  mention  it,  a  little  cider 
would  be  very  acceptable. 

Hans.     By  donder,  dat  cider  ! 

Zeb.     Sh  —  !     Keep  yer  hoofs  still,  Dutchy. 

Patience.  I'll  bring  yeou  some  directly.  Excuse  me 
a  moment.  (Exit,  L.) 

Deacon.  Miss  Patience  is  a  pleasant  body  ;  and  if  she 
wasn't  quite  so  old,  a  little  handsomer,  and  had  a  little 
more  money,  I  believe  I  should  be  inclined  to  make  her 
Mrs.  Peachblossom,  number  two.  But  then  there  is 
her  brother,  making  money  by  his  cider.  I  declare,  it's 
really  worth  thinking  on. 

Enter  PATIENCE,  L.,  with  mug  of  cider ;  draws  the  table 
up  to  sofa  and  sits. 

Patience.  There,  deacon,  there's  a  mug  of  the  best 
cider  yeou  ever  drank.  I  took  it,  myself,  out  of  a  new 
barrel  that  I  never  saw  afore. 

Deacon  (taking  mug).  Thank  you,  Pa  —  Miss  Pa- 
tience. Here's  your  good  health.  (Drinks.)  Splendid  ! 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER."  257 

Splendid  !     I  never  tasted  such  cider  before   in   all   my 
life.     (Hands  cider  to  PATIENCE,  who  sets  it  on  tabled) 

Patience.  I  thought  yeou'd  like  it.  Then  yeou  ap- 
prove of  cider-drinking. 

Deacon.  Certainly,  Miss  Patience.  It  is  a  healthy 
and  necessary  beverage.  It  is  Nature's  own  brewing  for 
the  lips  of  thirsty  travellers  in  this  journey  of  life.  I 
believe  in  temperance,  Miss  Patience  ;  in  strict  adhesion 
to  total  abstinence  from  all  that  intoxicates  ;  but  cider  is 
a  beverage  prepared  by  Nature  herself,  and  to  abstain 
from  drinking  cold  water  would  be  as  consistent  as  to 
refrain  from  drinking  cider.  Both  furnished  by  Nature, 
both  harmless.  Miss  Patience,  a  little  more  cider.  (She 
passes  mug.) 

Hans.     By  donder  !  my  t'roat  ish  dry  ash  never  vas. 

Zeb.  I  wish  I  was  eout  of  this.  The  Dutchman  is 
crowding  me  to  death. 

Deacon.  Splendid !  Splendid !  Never  tasted  such 
cider. 

Hans.     By  donder,  dat  ish  true  ! 

Patience.  Deacon,  don't  you  find  it  lonesome  at  yeour 
house  ? 

Deacon.  Yes,  indeed.  Now  that  my  beloved  Abigail 
has  gone,  I  do  feel  lonesome. 

Patience.  I  should  think  yeou  would.  I  should  think 
that  a  man  of  yeour  loving  disposition  would  be  anxious 
to  fill  the  place  she  vacated  with  some  congenial 
soul  — 

Deacon.  I  do,  I  do.  I  have  cast  my  eyes  about  me, 
and  almost  decided  to  take  — 

Patience.     Well,  Deacon,  disclose  yeour  feelings  — 
17 


258  "  A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

Deacon.  A  little  more  cider,  Miss  Patience.  (She 
passes  cider.) 

Hans.     By  donder,  dere  won't  be  no  cider  in  de  house  ! 

Deacon.  Splendid  !  Splendid  !  Sp  —  len  —  did  ! 
That  loosens  my  tongue.  Yes,  Miss  Patience,  —  dear 
Miss  Patience,  —  dear  Patience,  —  I  do  long  to  clasp  to 
my  arms  —  a  little  more  cider.  (She  passes  cider.) 
Thank  you.  Here's  your  jolly  good  health.  (Drinks.) 
Splendid  !  Splendid !  Splendid  !  That's  the  nectar 
(hie)  that  Jupiter  sips  (hie).  That's  glor'us  stuff.  Yes, 
dear  Miss  Cider,  —  I  mean,  Miss  Patience,  —  I'm  a  lone- 
some man.  I'm  a  drefful  lonesome  man.  I  want  some- 
body at  my  side  (hie)  to  bathe  my  throbbing  brow  (hie), 
to  give  me  —  to  give  me  —  a  little  more  cider.  (She 
gives  mug.)  Thank  you.  Here's  your  jolly  good  health. 
(Drinks.)  Splendid !  Splendid !  Splendid ! 

Patience.  (Aside.)  How  strangely  he  acts !  but  I 
believe  he  is  on  the  brink  of  a  proposal. 

Deacon.  Yes,  I  want  to  take  somebody  to  my  heart. 
Yes,  Patience,  —  dear  Patience,  —  dearest  Patience!  I 
want  to  take  you  to  my  heart  (hie),  this  bursting  heart  — 
come  to  these  longing  arms,  and  give  me  —  a  little  more 
cider. 

Patience.     Do  you  ask  me  to  be  your  wife,  Deacon  ? 

Deacon.  Splendid !  Splendid !  Splendid  cider !  Of 
course  I  do  !  Be  my  cider,  —  no,  my  wife  !  I  love  you  ! 
I  adore  you  !  (hie)  I  worship  you  !  I  want  you,  and  — 
a  little  more  cider. 

Patience.  (Jumping  up.)  Good  gracious  !  Deacon  ! 
(Pulls  him  up.)  Listen !  There's  a  man  under  the 
sofa.  My  foot  touched  him.  We  shall  be  murdered  I 
What  shall  I  do? 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER."  259 

Deacon.  Come  to  these  arms  (hie).  Who  cares  for 
the  man  (hie)  ?  let  'em  come  on  (hie)  !  these  arms  shall 
protect  you.  This  manly  bosom  shall  protect  you  (hie)  ; 
a  little  more  cider  shall  protect  you  (hie). 

Patience.  (Screams  and  throws  herself  into  DEACON'S 
arms.)  A  man  !  A  man  !  Help  !  Help  !  Help  ! 

(POLLY,  ISAAC,   and    HETTY   appear   at   door,  n.,  with 
light;  APPLEJACK,  L.) 

Applejack.  Well,  well,  Avhat's  the  matter  here?  Good- 
ness gracious  !  Sister  Patience  in  a  man's  arms,  and 
that  man  Deacon  Peachblossom  ! 

Deacon.  Tha's  wha's  the  marrer,  Flapplejack.  She 
flew  to  these  protecting  arms,  Flapplejack  ;  and  these 
protecting  arms,  Flapplejack,  clasped  her  in  a  warm  em- 
brace, Flapplejack  ;  and  that's  wha's  the  marrer. 

Applejack.  Why,  Deacon,  what  brought  you  to  this 
condition? 

Deacon.     A  little  more  cider,  Flapplejack. 

Patience.  O  Brother  Erastus !  there's  a  man  under 
the  sofa  ! 

Applejack.  Man  under  the  sofa?  We'll  have  him 
eout,  then,  quick ! 

(Seizes  HANS'S  leg,  and  pulls  him  out.  HANS  at  the  same 
time  seizes  ZEE'S  leg,  and  they  are  brought  out  together. 
HANS  sits  on  floor,  R.  ZEB,  L.) 

Applejack  (between).  Zeb,  what  on  airth  are  yeou 
under  the  sofa  for? 

Zeb.  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  s'pect  it's  the  same 
reason  that  set  the  deacon  on  it. 


260  "A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

Applejack.     What's  that? 

Zeb.     A  little  more  cider. 

Applejack.     Hans  Drinker,  what  sent  you  there? 

Hans.  By  donder  !  Meester  Applejack,  I  never  see 
such  wedder  pefore  for  der  next  five  years  !  I  vas  so 
dry  ash  never  vash  all  de  time,  and  so  I  coomed  here  for 
vat  you  axed  me. 

Applejack.     What  was  that? 

Hans.     A  leetle  more  cider. 

Applejack.     Will  somebody  please  to  explain  this? 

Deacon.  Ov  course,  Flapplejack.  I's  all  right.  I'm 
goin'  to  make  Miss  Patience  Mrs.  Pcachblossom  (hie), 
sure's  you  live ! 

Applejack.     I'm  glad  of  that. 

Isaac.  And  I'm  going  to  make  your  daughter  Mrs. 
Peachblossom,  Mr.  Applejack. 

Applejack.  No,  you're  not.  I'll  never  give  my  con- 
sent. 

Isaac.  I  think  you  will,  especially  as  I've  got  the 
name  of  the  party  who  buys  empty  whiskey-barrels,  one- 
third  full. 

Applejack.  You  have,  —  well,  you're  a  pretty  good 
feller.  Take  her  and  make  her  happy. 

Zeb.  I'm  going  to  make  Miss  Hetty  Mason  Mrs. 
Applejack  to-morrow. 

Applejack.     No,  you're  not.     I  forbid  the  banns. 

Zeb.  Too  late,  dad.  I'm  posted  on  all  the  tricks  of 
the  cider-trade ;  and,  if  you  interfere  with  my  arrange- 
ments, I'll  expose  it  all. 

Applejack.  Well,  well,  get  married  to-night  if  you 
choose.  I  don't  care.  I'm  tired  of  you.  I  want  a 
change. 


"A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER."  261 

Deacon.     Then  let's  have  some  more  cider. 

Isaac.  Mr.  Applejack,  there  are  two  interests  very 
dear  to  my  heart :  one  is  the  temperance  cause,  the  other 
is  your  daughter  Polly.  Duty  to  the  one  demands  that  I 
should  expose  the  deceit  you  have  practised  on  our  com- 
munity. Love  for  the  other  equally  demands  that  I 
should  conceal  it.  I  can  compromise  with  duty  only 
through  your  instrumentality.  Promise  me  to  give  up 
the  sale  of  cider  entirely,  and  I  am  silent.  Refuse,  and 
not  even  my  love  for  Polly  shall  prevent  my  exposing  the 
whole  transaction. 

Applejack.     Why,  Isaac,  there's  money  in  it. 

Isaac.  Not  honest  money,  Mr.  Applejack.  You  see 
what  a  fool  one  mug  of  it  has  made  of  my  father. 

Applejack.  Well,  I  know ;  but  Patience  must  have 
got  at  the  wrong  barrel,  and  given  him  the  full  strength 
of  whiskey. 

Isaac.     What  do  you  say  ?     Is  it  a  bargain  ? 

Applejack.  Well,  yes  :  there  is  no  other  course  ;  so 
I'll  e'en  make  a  merit  of  necessity. 

Isaac.  You'll  never  repent  of  it.  The  Devil  prowls 
around  the  earth  in  many  disguises.  Don't  you  help  to 
cover  him  up,  Mr.  Applejack. 

Deacon.  Well,  say  (hie)  :  a  little  less  talk,  and  a  lit- 
tle more  cider,  —  that's  my  idea. 

Isaac.  Not  to-night,  father.  Applejack  has  shut  up 
shop  for  the  night. 

Applejack.  Yes,  for  the  night.  Call  round  to-mor- 
row, friends,  and  you  shall  see  me  dispose  of  it. 

Zeb.  Well,  Hetty,  we're  going  to  get  married,  after 
all. 


262  "A   LITTLE   MORE   CIDER." 

Hetty.  Yes,  Zeb  ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  have  any  of 
that  cider  round  my  house. 

Deacon.     Patience,  when  shall  the  wedding  come  off  ? 

Patience.  Law,  Deacon,  don't  ask  me  afore  all  these 
folks. 

Isaac.  I'll  tell  you,  father.  Thanksgiving  Day,  when 
Polly  and  I  are  made  one.  Hey,  Polly? 

Polly.     I'm  willing,  if  father  is. 

Applejack.  Well,  as  you  seem  to  have  settled  it 
among  yourselves,  I  don't  think  my  consent  is  needed. 

Hans.  By  donder,  Meester  Applejack !  dere's  one 
ting  you  forgot. 

Applejack.  No,  I  haven't.  It's  what  you  want,  but 
cannot  have.  No  more  cider  here,  Hans.  We  are 
going  to  banish  it.  I  can  only  hope  that  our  kind  friends 
will  go  home  satisfied  that  the  article  least  needed  here 
was,  —  what  was  it,  Deacon? 

Deacon.     "  A  little  more  cider." 

Hans.     Petter  ash  never  vash,  py  donder ! 

DISPOSITION  OF  CHARACTERS. 

L.      ZEB   AND   HETTY,  POLLY   AND    ISAAC,      B. 

DEACON   AND   PATIENCE,    APPLEJACK,   HANS, 


NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN. 


CHAEACTEKS. 

NOAH  TESTY,  rich  and  crusty. 

FEED,  his  nephew. 

JACOB  TRUSTY,  his  servant. 

TIM  REGAN,  ^ 

ANDREW  SWIPES,  >  new  brooms. 

JlNG  JlMALONG,      ) 

COSTUMES. 

TESTY,  light  pants,  white  vest,  dressing-gown,  black  wig,  black 
side-whiskers,  wrinkled  face. 

FEED,  modern  suit. 

JACOB,  dark  suit,  gray  wig. 

TIM,  overalls  tucked  into  heavy  boots,  blue  striped  shirt,  blue 
coat  with  brass  buttons,  red  cropped  wig,  hat. 

SWIPES,  gray  coat,  gray  vest,  gray  knee-breeches,  top  boots,  long, 
white  neckerchief,  black  hat,  gilt  band,  light  cropped  wig,  light  side- 
whiskers. 

JING  (as  a  Chinaman),  blue  blouse,  loose  yellow  pants  fastened 
at  the  ankles,  white  stockings,  heavy  brogans,  flesh  colored  skull-cap 
(can  be  made  of  unbleached  cotton  like  a  night-cap,  made  to  tit  close 
to  the  head  :  color  with  flesh  ball,  cut  holes  on  each  side  for  the  cars 
to  appear,  and  it  will  be  tight),  a  long  black  cue,  very  red  face,  black 
about  the  chin  and  over  the  lip  to  have  the  appearance  of  being  un- 
shaven. 

263 


264  NEW   BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN. 

SCENE.  —  TESTY'S  Study.  Writing-table,  c.  Small  book- 
case with  books,  R.C.  Mantel,  with  plaster  bust,  vases, 
and  ornaments,  c.  Chair  at  table.  Stool,  R.C.  Chairs, 
R.  and  L.  Writing  materials,  paper,  &c.,  on  table. 

Enter  FRED,  R.,  followed  by  JACOB. 

Fred.  You  really  surprise  me,  Jacob.  After  twenty 
years'  service,  my  uncle  turns  you  adrift  in  your  old  age. 
It's  impossible  !  J 

Jacob.  It's  true,  sir,  I  assure  you.  Turned  adrift, 
after  twenty  years'  service,  —  and  hard  service  too,  — 
because  I  took  the  privilege  of  an  old  servant  to  tell  him 
the  truth. 

Fred.     Ah  !  what  was  the  truth  you  told  him  ? 

Jacob.  That  he  was  making  a  donkey  of  himself. 
He  was  too  old  to  transmogrify  himself  by  putting  on  a 
black  curly  wig  and  dyeing  his  whiskers. 

Fred.     But  why  did  you  tell  him  so? 

Jacob.  Because  I  couldn't  help  it.  The  idea  of  that 
old  gentleman  trying  to  deceive  the  world  at  his  time  of 
life !  He's  as  gray  as  a  badger,  and  as  bald  as  a  new- 
born baby.  Soon  he'll  have  all  the  young  ladies  after 
him. 

Fred.     Perhaps  he  wants  a  wife. 

Jacob.  Then  let  him  get  one  honestly.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  obtaining  goods  under  false  pretences. 

Fred.  Neither  do  I,  Jacob.  But  he's  his  own  mas- 
ter. I'm  sorry  for  you  ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  I  can 
help  you.  If  he  wants  to  marry,  it's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness. 

Jacob.     But,  Mr.  Fred,  I  think  it  is  your  business. 


NEW  BEOOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN.        265 

He's  gallavanting  after  a  widow.  I  know  that.  He's 
had  Mr.  Tubbs,  the  lawyer,  here,  drawing  up  a  will  or  a 
settlement ;  and  I  heard  him  say,  "  Now,  Master  Fred, 
you  must  take  care  of  yourself." 

Fred.  Still,  I  say  it's  none  of  my  business.  If  he 
chooses  to  marry,  let  him.  I  have  taken  care  of  myself 
so  far  ;  and,  though  I  might  reasonably  expect,  some  time, 
to  have  a  share  of  his  riches,  I  can  do  without. 

Jacob.  That's  very  true,  Mr.  Fred.  Still,  you 
shouldn't  let  your  uncle  fall  a  victim  to  the  schemes  of 
such  an  adventurer  as  Mrs.  Shoddy. 

Fred.  Mrs.  Shoddy  !  Is  that  the  lady  my  uncle  in- 
tends to  marry? 

Jacob.  That's  the  lady  he  is  dyeing  for.  Yes,  sir ; 
dyeing  by  inches.  He's  commenced  with  his  whiskers. 

Fred.  She  is  a  scheming  adventurer ;  and  my  uncle 
must  not  make  a  fool  of  himself. 

Jacob.  That's  what  I  say,  sir  ;  and  that's  what  I 
made  bold  to  tell  him.  He  took  offence,  and  turned  me 
off. 

Fred.  But,  Jacob,  you  must  not  go.  I'll  see  my  un- 
cle ;  and,  fortunately,  here  he  is.  Don't  let  him  see  you. 

Jacob.     I'll  take  care  of  that,  Mr.  Fred.      (Exit,  L.) 

Fred.  What  a  transformation !  The  old  gentleman 
must  be  very  far  gone. 

Enter  TESTY,  R. 

Why,  Uncle  Noah!  What  a  change!  Have  you  "re- 
newed your  youth  like  the  eagle  "  ? 

Testy.    Oh,  bother  your  nonsense  !    What  is  it  to  you? 

Fred.     Why,  uncle  — 


266  NEW   BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN. 

Testy.  Shut  up !  If  I  choose  to  make  a  change  in 
my  personal  appearance,  is  it  any  of  your  busiuess?  I 
have  had  trouble  enough  with  that  confounded  Jacob 
Trusty,  aud  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  by  you. 

Fred.  I  beg  your  pardon,  uncle  :  I  meant  no  offence, 
I  assure  you,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  looking  so  young 
again.  But,  uncle,  Jacob  tells  me  you  have  discharged 
him. 

Testy.  Yes,  I  have  discharged  him ;  and  I  have  dis- 
charged Patrick,  and  Sally  Greaser,  —  an  impudent  set, 
who  take  advantage  of  long  service  to  insult  me. 

Fred.  Patrick !  you  don't  mean  it,  uncle :  he's  the 
best  servant  you  ever  had.  And  Sally  Greaser  too.  Why 
there's  not  her  equal  in  the  city  as  a  cook.  Her  soft- 
shell  crabs  are  perfectly  splendid. 

Testy.  Hang  her,  and  her  soft-shell  crabs !  she's  an 
impudent  hussy.  I've  turned  her  off,  and  I  don't  mean 
to  have  another  woman  in  the  house.  I'll  have  a  Chinese 
cook. 

Fred.  A  Chinese  cook !  That's  a  novel  idea  ;*  but 
where  in  the  world  will  you  find  one? 

Testy.  That's  my  business.  Fortunately  I  have 
friends,  sir, — yes,  sir,  friends,  who  will  see  that  I  do  not 
suffer  for  servants.  I'll  teach  them  better  manners  than 
to  contradict  me.  I  won't  have  it.  I'll  let  them  know 
who  is  master  here.  I'm  going  to  commence  with  a  new 
set  this  very  day. 
•  Fred.  A  new  set? 

Testy.  Yes,  a  new  set.  I'm  going  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  "  New  brooms  sweep  clean."  With  a  new  set  rec- 
ommended to  me  by  a  lady  who  knows  something  about 
housekeeping. 


NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN.        267 

Fred.     A.  lady  :  pray,  may  I  inquire  who  she  is  ! 

Testy.     Mrs.  Shoddy. 

Fred.  Mrs.  Shoddy? — (Aside.)  So  the  schemer  is 
at  work.  —  (Aloud.)  But,  uncle,  are  you  not  afraid  to 
give  a  lot  of  new  servants  control  of  the  house? 

Testy.  Afraid?  No,  sjr.  I  shall  have  nobody  but 
whom  Mrs.  Shoddy  recommends.  I  have  the  greatest 
confidence  in  her ;  and,  whoever  she  sends,  I  will  em- 
ploy. 

Fred.  Ah,  uncle  !  be  careful  of  your  "  new  brooms." 
They  may  sweep  cleaner  than  you  will  like. 

Testy.  Well,  sir,  it's  none  of  your  business,  as  long 
as  I  like  it.  You  may  be  owner  of  this  property  some 
day,  and  then  you  can  do  as  you  like  with  it.  While  it 
is  mine,  I  shall  exercise  the  same  privilege. 

Fred.  Certainly,  uncle.  I've  no  more  to  say.  Good 
day.  —  (Aside.)  It's  too  bad.  The  old  gentleman  will 
be  swindled  by  that  adventuress.  I  must  know  what  is 
going  on.  Can't  I  manage  to  get  a  "  new  broom  "  into 
the  house.  There's  the  Chinese  cook.  I  don't  believe 
Mrs.  Shoddy  has  one  to  send.  At  any  rate  I'll  be  before- 
hand. I'll  send  one  myself.  'Twill  be  a  capital  joke. 
He  will  take  any  one  whom  Mrs.  Shoddy  sends.  How 
shall  I  get  her  recommendation?  I  think  I  can  manage 
it. 

Testy.  Well,  sir,  what  are  you  muttering  about  in  that 
corner? 

Fred.  I  beg  your  pardon,  uncle.  I  thought  you  hud 
gone.  I  was  thinking  where  I  could  find  you  a  Chinese 
cook. 

Testy.  You  needn't  trouble  yourself.  I'll  keep  my 
eyes  open  for  one. 


268  NEW   BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN. 

Fred.  (Aside.)  And  so  will  I.  And  I'll  keep  an  eye 
on  these  new  brooms  of  his  too.  (Exit,  R.) 

Testy.  (Sits  at  table.)  There's  another  impudent  fel- 
low. He'd  like  to  say  something  saucy,  I  know  ;  but  the 
fear  of  the  consequences  deters  him.  It's  no  use,  Master 
Fred :  my  money  goes  to  Mrs.  Testy  ;  for  Mrs.  Shoddy 
will  not  consent  to  the  change  on  any  other  conditions. 
Bewitching  widow !  I'd  sacrifice  life  itself  for  her. 
(Takes  paper  from  drawer.)  The  settlement  is  all  ready. 
So,  Muster  Fred,  your  chance  for  the  riches  of  old 
Testy  are  decidedly  slim.  (Takes  out  another  paper.) 
What's  this?  My  bonds  !  Good  gracious  !  I  forgot  to 
lock  them  up  last  night.  That's  very  careless  in  me,  to 
leave  ten  thousand  dollars  of  Uncle  Sam's  indebtedness  in 
this  loose  manner.  (Knock,  R.)  Hallo!  Who's  that? 
(Puts  papers  in  draiver.)  Come  in. 

Enter  JOHN  SWIPES,  R. 

Swipes.  Hi  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  Hi  'ave  ha  note 
from  Mrs.  Shoddy. 

Testy.     Mrs.  Shoddy?     Let  me  have  it.     (Heads.) 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  TESTY,"  —  Her  dear  Mr.  Testy  ! 
Bewitching  widow  !  —  "I  promised  to  send  you  some 
good  servants.  The  bearer  is  an  excellent  coachman, 
one  to  be  trusted,  who  never  breaks  any  thing  except 
horses.  He  will  suit  you  admirably. 

"  Ever  yours,  CECILIA  SHODDY." 

Ever  yours  !     Delicious  widow  !  —  So,  sir,  you  are  a 
coachman. 

Sioipes.  Yes,  sir  ;  Hi'm  ha  coachman.  'Ave  'ad  hex- 
perience  hin  the  haristocratic  families  hof  the  Hold 
World,  hand  hi  flatter  myself  hi  can  drive. 


NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN.        269 

Testy.     Well,  sir  ;   your  name. 

Swipes.  Swipes,  sir ;  Haudrew  Swipes,  son  of  Hos- 
car  Swipes  hand  Hanastasia  Swipes  ;  birthplace,  Hessex, 
Hinglaud  ;  hage  — 

Testy.  Never  mind  your  age.  You  will  suit  me  ex- 
actly. I  engage  you  at  once.  You  don't  drink? 

Swipes.  Never ;  hexcept  hon  hextraordinary  hocca- 
sions,  hand  then  honly  hale. 

Testy.  You'll  find  your  horses  in  the  stable.  As  soon 
as  possible,  have  the  carriage  at  the  door :  I  wish  to  take 
a  ride. 

Swipes.     Hi'll  do  hit  hat  once.     (Exit,  R.) 

Testy.  An  English  coachman.  That  style  will  suit 
Mrs.  Shoddy.  If  he  is  as  fond  of  his  horses  as  he  is  of 
superfluous  h's,  he  will  do  admirably.  (Knock,  L.) 
Hallo!  Who's  that?  Come  in. 

Enter  TIM,  L. 

Well,  what  do  you  want? 

Tim.  If  yer  plaze,  sir,  yer  honor,  I  have  a  letther 
from  Mrs.  Shoddy. 

Testy.     Mrs.  Shoddy?     Let  me  have  it.     (Beads.) 

"Mr  DEAR,  DEAR  MR.  TESTY," — (Two  dears  this 
time  !  Charming  widow  !  She's  dearer  than  ever  !)  "  I 
have  again  the  power  to  serve  you.  The  bearer  is  a 
worthy  and  capable  servant,  who  will  admirably  suit 
you.  Your  devoted  CECILIA." 

My  devoted  Cecilia!     Ravishing  widow  !     Young  man, 
your  name. 

Tim.     Tim  Regan,  if  yer  plaze,  sir,  yer  honor. 

Testy.  You  are  recommended  to  me  as  a  worthy  and 
capable  servant. 


270  NEW   BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN. 

Tim.     O  sir  !    yer  honor,  shpare  me  modesty. 

Test i/.     What  are  your  particular  qualifications? 

Tim.     Which? 

Testy.     What  can  you  do? 

Tim.     Atp,  dhrink,  and  slape,  sir,  yer  honor. 

Testy.     Ah,  humorous,  I  see. 

Tim.  Not  much.  I  had  the  masles  once,  I  think,  sir, 
yer  honor. 

Tesly.     Pshaw,  man  !     Can  you  keep  a  room  tidy? 

Tim.  I  can  that,  jist;  or  a  pig-sty,  eather,  sir,  yer 
honor. 

Testy.     That's  all  I  want.     I  engage  you  at  once. 

T:m.     Thank  yer,  sir,  yer  honor;  and  the  wages? 

Testy.     Forty  dollars  a  month. 

Tim.     Forty  — 

Testy.  You  will  go  to  work  at  once.  Get  a  duster, 
and  brush  up  my  room.  I  shall  expect  great  things  of 
you,  you  are  so  highly  recommended  by  Mrs.  Shoddy. 
Go  into  the  next  room,  take  off  that  coat,  put  on  a  linen 
duster  you'll  find  there,  and  come  back  here. 

Tim.     To  be  sure  I  will,  sir,  your  honor.      (Exit,  E.) 

Testy.  Well,  I  must  say  that  Mrs.  Shoddy  has  not 
been  particularly  nice  as  to  the  outward  appearance  of 
the  individual  she  has  selected  to  be  my  body-guard.  lie 
looks  more  like  a  hod-carrier  than  a  gentleman's  valet. 
But  can  I  doubt  her?  —  my  chosen  one  ;  the  idol  of  my 
soul;  the  bewitching,  beautiful, — 

Enter  JING  JIMALONG,  L.  He  stands  grinning  at  TESTY, 
with  the  forefinger  of  each  hand  pointing  up  a  la 
Chinese. 

Who  in  the  deuce  is  that? 


NEW   BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN.  271 

Jing.     Muchee  purty  well  ?  Ki  I ! 

Testy.  As  I  live,  it's  a  real  live  Chinaman.  Oh  !  I 
see  the  beautiful  hand  of  the  divine  Mrs.  Shoddy  in  this. 

Jing.     Me  muchee  big  cookie,  Ki  I ! 

Testy.     Ah,  indeed  !  and  who  sent  you  here? 

Jing.  Muchee  fine  lady  ;  muchee  big  bunchee  on  her 
back ;  muchee  pig-tail  round  her  head ;  muchee  fine 
eyes  ;  muchee  little  feet ;  muchee  fine  all  over,  —  Ki  I ! 

Testy.  Her  description  exactly.  What  an  intelligent 
foreigner !  I  know  I  shall  like  him.  So  you  can  cook? 

Jing.      Ki  I  ! 

Testy.  Well,  I  don't  want  any  "  Ki  I's  "  cooked  here  ; 
that  may  do  for  your  country.  Can  you  cook  bread? 

Jing.     Ki  I  ! 

Testy.     Meat? 

Jing.     Ki  I !      Muchee  ebery  ting. 

Testy.  Capital,  capital.  He'll  do.  What  an  angel 
Mrs.  Shoddy  is  !  My  friend,  you  wait  here  a  moment, 
and  I'll  find  somebody  to  show  you  to  the  kitchen.  I'll 
take  you  into  my  service.  You  shall  cook  me  a  Chinese 
dish  at  once.  I'm  going  to  ride,  and  I'm  always  hungry 
when  I  return.  (Exit,  R.) 

Jing.  Be  jubers  !  here's  a  foine  sitivation  for  an  Irish- 
man :  rigged  up  like  an  owld  woman,  and  jabbering  like 
a  Totteuhot.  It's  all  the  doings  av  Mr.  Fred.  "  Pat," 
says  he,  —  "  Anan,"  says  I,  —  "•  Would  yez  be  afther 
kapiu'  yer  sitivatiou  that  my  uncle  took  from  yez,"  says 
he.  "  To  be  sure  I  would,"  says  I.  "  Then  come  wid  me." 
And  thin  he  took  me  to  his  room  ;  and,  bedad,  this  is  the 
cousequince.  I'm  made  a  Chinaman  widout  naturaliza- 
tion iutirely.  "  Aud  thin,"  says  he,  "  Pat,  it's  little  time 


272  NEW   BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN. 

I  have  to  tach  the  language.  Say, '  Muchee,'  and  '  Ki  I ! ' 
to  all  the  owld  gentleman  says,  and  whativer  yer  own  in- 
tilligence  may  bid  yez."  But,  bedad,  it's  afraid  I  am  av 
the  owld  man :  if  he  finds  out  the  clesate,  I'm  a  ruined 
Chinaman  intirely.  Muchee,  Ki  I ! 

Enter  TESTY  with  SWIPES,  L. 

Testy.  Swipes,  just  show  this  individual  into  the 
kitchen. 

Swipes.     Certainly  hi  will.    Why,  hit's  a  celestial ! 

Jing.  (aside.)  A  which  is  it?  Begorra  !  what's  that 
he's  calling  me? 

Testy.     Yes,  it's  my  new  cook.    Take  him  along. 

Swipes.  Come  this  way.  What  ha  cook  !  What  can 
you  cook? 

Jing.     Ki  I !  Ki ! 

Swipes.  His  that  hall  ?  What  a  blarsted  country  that 
China  must  be  !  (Exit,  R.) 

Jing.     Musha,  I'm  in  for  it !     (Exit,  R.) 

Testy.  What  a  novelty!  I've  got  the  start  of  my 
neighbors,  thanks  to  dear  Mrs.  Shoddy.  I've  no  doubt 
I  shall  find  something  nice  on  my  return. 

Enter  SWIPES,  R.  followed  by  TIM. 

Swipes.     The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  sir.     (Exit,  R.) 

Testy.  All  right.  Now,  Tim,  get  my  coat  and  hat 
in  the  next  room. 

Tim.     All  right,  sir,  yer  honor.      (Exit,  L.) 

Testy.  (Takes  off  his  dressing-gown.)  I've  got  a 
trio  of  new  servants,  and  they  all  look  smart.  That  last 
lot  thought  I  couldn't  do  without  them,  did  they  ?  There's 
nothing  like  a  change.  "  New  brooms  sweep  clean." 


NEW  BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN.  273 

Enter  TIM  with  coat  and  hat. 

Just  help  me  with  this  coat.  (Puts  on  hat  and  coat.}  Now, 
Tim,  have  every  thing  in  order  on  my  return.  (Exit,  R.) 
Tim.  All  right,  sir,  yer  honor.  Faith,  here's  a 
sthrake  av  luck.  Intirely  out  av  a  situation,  I  dropped 
in  to  say  me  cousin,  Biddy  O'Honey,  who  lives  wid  Mrs. 
Shoddy.  Biddy  had  a  bit  iv  a  shindy  wid  the  lady's 
own  man  ;  and,  whin  Mrs.  Shoddy  sinds  Biddy  to  fetch 
him  a  note  for  Mr.  Testy,  Biddy  pops  it  into  my  hand, 
and  says,  "  You  go,  Tim :  he'll  niver  be  the  wiser  if  you 
give  it  him,  and  you'll  profit  by  the  place.  Shure,  it's 
my  duty  to  look  after  my  own  frinds  furst."  So  here  I 
am,  ingaged  on  another  man's  karacther.  It's  little  I 
know  about  the  work,  for  hod-carrying's  my  perfession. 
Ah,  well,  the  owld  gint  said,  Have  every  thing  in  ordher. 
Faith,  I'll  do  that  same.  (Takes  a  duster,  and  fiercely 
brushes  table,  sending  papers  flying  in  all  directions,  and 
upsetting  the  inkstand.)  Oh,  murther  !  I've  upset  the  ink. 
There's  a  black  stain  on  my  karacther.  (Takes  MR. 
TESTY'S  handkerchief  from  the  pocket  of  dressing-gown,  and 
wipes  up  the  ink  ;  puts  handkerchief  back.)  Jist  as  good  as 
new.  (Picks  up  papers.)  The  ould  gint  has  covered 
his  papers  with  pot-hooks  and  scrawls.  They're  no 
good,  sure.  (Tears  up  papers.)  Now  for  the  drawers. 
(Takes  out  will.  "Last  will  and  testament."  Sure, 
that's  no  good.  Hei'e's  the  last  of  that.  (Tears  up  will. 
Takes  out  coupons.)  Picters  for  his  ould  gint's  baby. 
(Throws  them  on  table.)  I'll  finish  my  dusting.  (Brushes 
mantle,  knocking  off  the  bust  and  vases.)  Oh,  murther ! 
here's  a  crash  among  the  fine  arts.  "What  will  I  do  ? 
(Knock,  R.)  Who's  that?  Come  in  wid  yer. 
18 


274  NEW  BROOMS   SWEEP  CLEAN. 

Enter  JING,  R. 

Tim.  Och,murther  !  what's  that?  It's  a  cannible,  or 
a  —  or  a  —  vhat  is  it  ? 

Jing.  Faith,  I'd  jist  like  to  know  what  a  Chinase 
dish  is,  ony  how,  afore  I'd  cook  it.  Bedad  !  I  must  scrub 
up  my  jography,  shure.  Faix,  thim  fellers  cook  rats  and 
mice  and  puppies  !  That's  it.  Where  will  I  find  a 
puppy?  (Sees  TIM.)  Och,  murther  !  if  that  ain't  my 
own  brother  Tim.  What  will  I  do?  He'll  find  me  out, 
and  raise  a  breeze,  sure.  Och,  murther!  Why  was  I 
born  to  die  a  Chinaman  ?  (Sits  on  stool,  with  head  bent 
down.) 

Tim.  By  my  sowl !  that's  one  av  them  fellers  that 
come  from  the  bottom  av  the  world.  It's  a  Chinaman. 
Musha,  whist !  Vhat's  your  name,  I'd  loike  to  know? 

Jing.     Ki  I ! 

Tim.  Faith!  now,  is  it?  And  where  did  yez  come 
from? 

Jing.     Ki  I ! 

Tim.  Vhat's  that?  Is  it  a  Dutchman  yez  are,  or  a 
Roosian,  or  a  Proosian? 

Jing.     Ki  I ! 

Tim.  I  belave  yez,  honey.  Poor  owld  feller :  he's 
deaf,  dumb,  and  blind.  Faix !  have  yez  a  small  tay- 
chist  about  yez,  for  it's  my  owld  woman  that's  fond  av 
the  wade? 

Jing.     Ki  I ! 

Tim.  Git  owt  av  that,  ye  dirty  blackguard  !  By  my 
sowl,  if  yez  "  Ki  I "  again,  I'll  thread  on  the  tail  av 
yer  hair.  Away  wid  yez  ! 


NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN.        275 

•    Jing.     (Aside.)     Begorra  !   I'd  loike  to  punch  his  head 
for  him,  the  thaif.     (Aloud.)     Ki  I !  Ki  I !      (Exit,  R.) 

Tim.  By  me  sovvl !  that  ovvld  chap  looks  enough 
like  me  brither.  Pat  to  be  his  own  cousin  !  Chinaman,  is 
it !  Begorra !  it's  sorry  manners  he  has,  onyhow. 
(Knock)  L.) 

Enter  FRED,  L.,  disguised  as  an  image-vender,   with  a 
basket  containing  images,  vases,  &c. 

Fred.     Imagees !     Imagees  ! 

Tim.     What's  that?     Tmgees ! 

Fred.     You  buy  my  imagees?     Ver  sheep  ;  ver  sheep. 

Tim.  Faith,  it's  not  a  sheep  I  want,  at  all,  at  all. 
Have  yer  a  bust  of  St.  Patrick  or  O'Connell,  sure? 

Fred.  No,  no !  Ze  leetle  Nap.  See !  (Showing 
bust  of  Napoleon.) 

Tim.     Faith,  it's  all  the  same.      How  much? 

Fred.     You  buy,  eh?     Tree  dollar:   ver  sheep. 

Tim.  Sheep,  is  it  ?  Three  dollars  !  Faith,  it's  deer. 
No,  I've  niver  a  cint. 

Fred.     No  moneys  !   den  you  no  buy. 

Tim.  Hold  on,  Parleyvoo  !  I'll  trade  wid  yer.  Be- 
gorra !  I'll  sind  off  some  uv  the  owld  glut's  books.  He'll 
uiver  rade  thini  all.  (Takes  down  a  book.)  "Paradise 
Lost."  Lost,  is  it?  Faith,  it's  found  once  more,  thin. 
Whist !  Sh  —  !  This  for  the  little  Nap  —  hey  ? 

Fred.      (Aside.)     My  uncle's  much-prized  Banyan. 

Tim.  It's  something  about  bunions.  I'm  something 
av  a  corn-doctor,  and  I  know  it's  good.  Is  it  a  trade? 

Fred.     For  ze  leetle  Nap?     Yes.     (They  exchange.) 

Tim.     Now  for  the  vases.     What  will  I  do  fur  thim? 


276         NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN. 

,    Fred.     Here's    de   vases.      Ver   rich.      Two    dollar.' 
Ver  sheep,  ver  sheep. 

Tim.     Will  you  have  some  more  larnin',  Parleyvoo? 

Fred.  (Takes  up  the  coupon  bonds. )  S harming 
picturs  !  Ver  fine  ! 

Tim.  Oh!  you  like  them,  do  you?  Faith,  give  me  the 
vases,  and  they  are  yours. 

Fred.  For  ze  vases?  Too  sheep,  too  sheep.  Ver 
well :  you  have  ze  vases.  (They  exchange.)  (Aside.) 
Ten  thousand  dollars  !  My  poor  uncle  ! 

Testy.  (Outside,  R.)  Oh,  murder !  Murder!  Tim! 
Tim! 

Tim.  The  owld  gint.  Begorra,  here's  a  row  !  Coorn- 
ing,  cooming,  sir,  yer  honor.  (Exit,  R.) 

Fred.  My  uncle  !  I'll  slip  away.  His  new  broom 
has  made  a  clean  sweep  here.  Wonder  how  he  will  like 
it.  (Exit,  L.) 

Enter  TESTY,  R.,  his  clothes  muddy,  his  hat  knocked  over 
his  eyes,  supported  by  TIM. 

Testy.  O  Tim,  Tim  !  That  coachman,  —  he's  mur- 
dered me  I* 

Tim.     And  left  you  spacheless,  the  dirty  blackguard  ! 

Testy.  Upset  me  in  front  of  Mrs.  Shoddy's  house. 
Bring  me  my  dressing-gown.  (Puts  it  on.)  Here's  a 
pretty  situation.  (Takes  out  handkerchief,  wipes  his  face, 
leaving  ink-stains  upon  it.)  Why,  what's  this,  Tim? 
(Looks  around  room.)  What  have  you  been  doing,  you 
villain?  My  bust  ruined  !  My  papers  destroyed  !  Open 
drawers  !  The  will  gone,  —  and  my  coupons  —  (seizing 
TIM).  You  scoundrel,  what  have  you  done  with  my 
coupons? 


NEW   BROOMS   SWEEP   CLEAN.  277 

Tim.  If  you  plaze,  sir,  yer  honor,  I've  been  claning 
up  a  bit. 

Testy.  Cleaning  up !  Cleaning  out,  you  mean. 
Where's  my  money  ? 

Tim.     Money,  is  it?     How  should  I  know? 

Enter  SWIPES,  R. 

Testy.  O  you  villain  !  back  again,  are  you?  You've 
been  drinking. 

Sivipes.     Honly  ha  little  hale. 

Testy.     Didn't  you  tell  me  you  didn't  drink? 

Swipes.  Honly  hon  hextraordinary  occasions.  This 
was  one,  when  hi  got  ha  new  place.  Hi  took  ha  little 
hale. 

Testy.  Which  upset  me  as  well  as  you.  I'll  make 
another  hextraordinary  hoccasion  for  you.  Go  !  I  dis- 
charge you. 

Swipes.  Go,  without  warning?  This  his  han  hin- 
sult. 

Testy.  I  give  you  warning,  that,  if  you  are  found  in 
this  house  in  five  minutes,  I'll  give  you  to  the  police. 

Sivipes.  Hi  won't  go  without  my  pay.  Hit's  hauda- 
cious  !  (Takes  off  his  coat.) 

Tim.     True  for  you,  honey  :  stick  to  that. 

Testy.  And  you,  Tim  :  I'll  hand  you  over  to  the  po- 
lice at  once.  You've  robbed  me. 

Tim.  Rob,  is  it  ?  Begorra !  there's  an  insult  to  an 
Irish  gintleman.  (Takes  off  his  coat.) 

Testy.     What  are  you  about? 

Tim.  About  to  have  satisfaction,  you  owld  black- 
guard ! 


278        NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN. 

Testy.  Come,  come ;  none  of  this.  I'll  baud  you 
both  over  to  the  police. 

Swipes.  (Threateningly.}  Pay  hup,  hor  hover  you 
go! 

Tim.     (Shaking  his  fist.)     Robber,  is  it? 

Testy.  Do  you  dare  threaten?  (SwjPES  and  TIM 
seize  TESTY  and  shake  him.)  Here  !  Help  !  Help  ! 

Enter  FRED,  R.,  JACOB,  L. 

Ffed.     Hallo,  uncle  !  what's  the  matter? 

Testy.  Fred,  you  are  just  in  time.  In  a  moment  I 
should  have  fallen  a  victim  to  the  violence  of  a  drunkard 
and  of  a  robber. 

Fred.     Why,  these  are  two  of  your  new  servants. 

Testy.  No,  they're  not.  They're  both  discharged. 
One  has  robbed  me,  and  I  want  the  police.  Robbed  of 
ten  thousand  dollars ! 

Fred.  Which  I  can  restore.  Here  are  your  coupons, 
uncle,  safe  and  sound.  I  think  they  have  depreciated  in 
value,  as*  Tim  gave  them  to  me  for  a  pair  of  vases. 

Tim.     Sir,  yer  honor,  I  niver  set  eyes  on  him  bafore. 

Fred.     Oh,  yes,  you  did  !     Imagees? 

Tim.     Begorra  !  it's  the  Parleyvoo. 

Testy.  I've  had  a  narrow  escape.  Thanks  to  you, 
Fred.  Jacob,  you'll  resume  your  old  situation  at  once  ; 
that  is,  if  you  have  not  found  a  new  one. 

Jacob.  No,  sir.  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Shoddy  to  ask 
for  a  place,  but  she  was  in  trouble. 

Testy.     In  trouble? 

Jacob.  Yes.  It  seems,  about  a  year  ago,  she  ran 
away  from  her  husband,  taking  all  his  money.  He's 


NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN.        279 

found  her  out,  and  this  very  day  arrived  to  take  her 
home  again. 

Testy.  Her  husband?  A  widow  with  a  husband! 
Oh,  horror !  my  hair  is  turning  white. 

Jacob.     I  told  you,  sir,  that  dye  wouldn't  stick. 

Testy.  Fred,  I  think  you'd  better  come  and  live  with 
me.  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  marry.  I'm  getting  too 
old. 

Fred.  (Aside.)  "  A  hungry  fox  is  passing  by."  — 
(Aloud.)  Thank  you,  sir;  I'll  come  with  pleasure.  But 
what  about  these  new  servants?  (A  dog  heard  yelping 
outside,  L.  Then  a  crash  of  crockery.  JING  runs  in,  K.) 

Jing.  Och  !  murther,  murther,  uiurther  !  It's  kilt  I 
am,  intirely.  (Shakes  his  fist  off,  L.)  Yez  murthering 
thaif  av  the  worrld.  Git  out  av  that  !  Away  wid  yez  ! 

Testy.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this?  It's  my  new 
Chinese  servant,  Fred. 

Fred.    With  a  brogue  like  a  wild  Irishman. 

Testy.  You  impostor  !  What  does  this  mean  ?  Speak, 
quick.  * 

Jing.  (Aside.)  Oh,  murther !  I've  let  the  cat  out 
av  the  bag  !  (Aloud.)  Ki  I !  Muchee  Ki  I ! 

Testy.  That  won't  do.  What  is  the  meaning  of  that 
"  Ki  I"  ing  down  stairs? 

Jing.  (Aside.)  Vhat  shall  I  say?  (Aloud.)  Me 
try  cookee  bow-wow  ;  bow-wow  no  likee  cookee  him. 
Bow-wow  muchee  Ki  I !  me  muchee  Ki  I,  too,  — 
bow-wow  muchee  run  into  closet :  muchee  crockery, 
—  bang,  —  bang,  —  bang,  —  muchee  pieces,  all  breakee. 
Muchee,  —  muchee,  —  muchee,  —  and  be  jabers  !  that's 
what's  the  matter  intirely,  or  my  name's  not  Pat  Regan  ; 


280        NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN. 

and  bother  yez  blasted  Chinese,  for  it's  nearly  broke  my 
jaw. 

Tim.  Pat  Regan  !  be  my  sowl !  I  recognize  the  vice 
of  affection  in  my  bones.  (Seizes  JING'S  pigtail,  and  pulls 
off  skull-cap.)  It's  himsilf  intirely.  O  Pat,  Pat !  how 
could  yez?  Is  it  yerself  that's  disgracing  owld  Ireland 
by  going  over  to  China?  Begorra  !  ye's  so\vld  yer  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  broken  china.  Be  my  sowl,  I'm  pale 
wid  blushing  for  yez. 

Jing.  Aisy  wid  yer  blarney,  Tim,  or  it's  a  batin'  ye'll 
git. 

Testy.     Patrick  Regan. 

Jing.     Sir. 

Testy.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  masquerade? 
Didn't  I  discharge  you  this  morning? 

Fred.  Let  me  speak  for  him,  uncle.  I  alone  am  to 
blame  ;  for  I  dressed  him  in  the  costume,  and  instructed 
him  in  the  language  of  a  Chinaman. 

Testy.     You  did,  you  scamp  !  and  what  for,  pray? 

Fred.  To  assist  you  in  your  endeavors  to  procure 
"  new  brooms,"  and  also  to  outwit  Mrs.  Shoddy. 

Testy.  Well,  if  that  is  a  specimen  of  your  proficiency 
in  the  Chinese  language,  the  sooner  you  are  sent  as 
ambassador  to  the  Celestials  the  better. 

Fred.  Uncle,  let  Pat  have  his  old  place :  you  can't 
do  better.  He  wont  contradict  you  again,  —  will  you, 
Pat? 

Jing.     Faith  !   Not  muchee. 

Testy.  Shut  up  !  Don't  let  me  hear  any  of  that 
lingo,  or  out  of  this  house  you'll  go  :  for  the  present,  you 
may  take  your  old  place. 


NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN.        281 

Fred.     And  what's  to  be  done  with  the  other  servants? 

Tim.     Begorra  !  that's  what  I'd  like  to  know. 

Swipes.  You've  crushed  my  'opes,  hand  hi  want  my 
money. 

Testy.  Pay  them,  and  send  them  off.  I'll  take  back 
the  old  ones  ;  for  I  am  convinced,  from  my  unhappy  ex- 
perience of  the  last  half-hour,  that,  despite  the  old  prov- 
erb, new  brooms  do  not  always  sweep  clean. 

DISPOSITION  OF   CHARACTERS. 
R.,       PAT.        FKED.         TESTY.         SWIPES.          TIM.       L,., 


(jlafalogite  o 


(or  Amateur 


BY    GEORGE    M.  BAKER, 

Author  of  "Amateur  Dramas"  "The  Mimic  Stage"  "T&e  Social  Stage,"  &*c. 


DRAMAS    IN  TWO    ACTS. 

SYLVIA'S  SOLDIER        ....        3  Male,  2  Female  Characters. 
ONCE  ON  A  TIME         ....        4     „       2      „  „ 

DOWN  BY  THE  SEA      ....        6     „       3      „  „ 

BREAD  ON  THE  WATERS  5     „       3      ,,  „ 

THE  LAST  LOAF 5     „       3      ,,  ,, 

DKAMAS    IN    ONE    ACT. 

STAND  BY  THE  FLAG  ....        5  Male  Characters 

THE  TEMPTER 3     ,,       i  Female  Character. 

FARCES.  — Male  and  Female  Characters. 

WE'RE  ALL  TEETOTALLERS         .        .        4  Male,  2  Female  Characters. 
A  DROP  TOO  MUCH  4     ,,       2      „  ,, 

THIRTY  MINUTES  FOR  REFRESHMENTS,    4     „       3      ,,  „ 

A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER  5     ,,       3      „  „ 

FARCES.— Male  Characters  only. 

WANTED,  A  MALE  COOK    ...        4  Characters. 

A  SEA  OF  TROUBLES  .  .  .  .  "  8 
FREEDOM  OF  THE  PRESS  ...  8 

A  CLOSE  SHAVE 6 

THE  GREAT  ELIXIR  ....  9 
THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DEMIJOHN  .  4 
HUMORS  OF  THE  STRIKE  ...  8 
NEW  BROOMS  SWEEP  CLEAN  .  .  6 
MY  UNCLE  THE  CAPTAIN  ...  6 

FARCES.— Female  Characters  only. 

THE  GREATEST  PLAGUE  IN  LIFE      .         8  Characters. 
No  CURE  NO  PAY        ....        7         „ 
THE  GRECIAN  BEND     ....         7          „ 

ALLEGORIES.  —  Arranged  for  Music  and  Tableaux. 

LIGHTHEART'S  PILGRIMAGE        .        .        8  Female  Characters. 

THE  WAR  OF  THE  ROSES    .        .        .        8      ,,  „ 

THE  SCULI-TOR'S  TRIUMPH  .        .        .        i  Male,  4  Female  Characters. 

MUSICAL    AND    DRAMATIC    ENTERTAINMENTS. 

Too  LATE  FOR  THE  TRAIN         .        .  2  Male  Characters. 
SNOW-BOUND;  OR,  ALONZO  THE  BRAVE  J 

AND  THE  FAIR  IMOGEKE,  )  * 

BONBONS;  OR,  THE  PAINT-KING        .  3 

THE  PEDDLER  OF  VERY  NICE    .        .  7 

AN  ORIGINAL  IDEA  i 
CAPULETTA  ;  OR,  ROMEO  AND  JULIET  I 

RESTORED    .  .  .f  ' 


i  Female  Character. 


Characters. 

i  Female  Character. 


Temperance    ]?ieces. 


THE  LAST  LOAF. 

WK'RE  ALL  TEETOTALLERS. 

A  DROP  TOO  MUCH. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  DEMIJOHN 
A  LITTLE  MORE  CIDER. 
THE  TEMPTER. 


Plays  sent  by  Mail,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  15  cents  each,  with  the  exception  of 
'Snow-Bound"  and  "  Bonbons,"  which  are  25  cents  each. 

LED  Ss  SHEPABD,  119  Washington  St.,  Lov.cr.. 


